Bucky's wife

“please,” he begs over the phone, “i’ll be good i swear. i’ll stop fighting just let me come home.”

from his tone you could tell he was just done crying and it just sounded pathetically beautiful.

“this is not your home. this is my house.” you coo as you stir your dinner. “stop calling me dex.”

you hang up without listening to the rest of his pleading. though less than 10 minutes later, he’s at your front door, begging again.

“baby,” eyes red and puffy, “i need you, i can’t breathe without you. please, please, don’t cut me off again, just—” he breathes as he ghosts his arm by your shoulders like he’s asking for permission. “can i please stay?”

you sigh and let him inside the house. he silently walks in, muttering a quiet thank you as he passes you. as soon as you close door and turn, dex is already on his knees.

“what the hell are you doing dex?”

dropping to his knees, his hands caress the backs of your thighs, dropping his head and burying it between them. gripping you tightly like he could bare letting go. “please take me back. nothing is good without you and it’s making me fucking sick, please,” practically blubbering at this point.

he was so strong and his biceps wrapped around you effortlessly. you could feel the strength just radiating off of him always, like an ever glowing essence.

you sigh, hand touching the nape of his neck and travelling up through his hair while he hums in contentment, “please stand up.”

the sound that he makes was teetering the line of desperation and relief. his lips press against the plush of your thigh while his hands rise to cup your ass. with your hand still buried in his hair, you pull him up with a slight tug, trying to get him to stand. though he keeps slowly rising, kissing up your side and dancing over your stomach, the fabric rising with every movement. a soft gasp escapes your lips and his touch slides up your spine, a shiver running through you. he stops just by your neck when you tug his hair harder and he hisses your name though one would argue it was a moan. you shove him gently and tell him to sit down, though you knew he could’ve stopped you.

you tend to his wounds and wipe his face and he watches you the whole time with puppy eyes. you share your dinner with him but you don’t touch again then, he only steals glances between bites.

within the span of an hour he’s inching closer to you on the couch and he’s watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. no one really cares about the news playing on the television as it repeats something about the AVTF.

his heavy hand rests just under your chest as he pulls you in and buries his nose in your hair, taking a long deep breath in. memorizing your scent like it gave him life.

by the end of night dex is situated between your legs, groaning like it hurts to part from you. he whispers soft thank you’s like he’s grateful for this meal you’ve provided. pushing your legs up higher over his head while you pant and squirm. but dex takes more control then, ignoring your pleas to slow down and dragging you closer to his mouth. maw slack and relentless as he laps and teases. his strong arms wrap and hook around your thighs. tongue teasing the sensitive bud for what felt like eternity. you’ll push his head away to no avail, weakly spent as you attempt it.

“dex, enough. i can’t,” you pant, voice bordering on barely concealed exhaustion and blissful satisfaction.

he shakes his head against you and that only makes you gasp again, throwing your head back.

“not until you promise hmm?” he says between his drunken moans, “you can’t leave me.”

crying out from overstimulating pleasure you nod, “okay, fuck— i won’t. you can stay.”

looking up at you through his hooded eyes, he smiles with them before kissing your inner thigh. he leaves gentle kisses to let you cool off, letting the feeling subside for barely a minute before diving right back into his ministrations. he lets you squeeze yours legs around his head and writhe as you say his name.

“now really try to suffocate me with these,” he says as he squeezes your thighs harder around his neck, turning his head to bite the plush of your thighs.

you know you’ll let him in again. you’ll always let him come back. maybe one day you’ll tell him how you follow him too.

Dex went still. The principal kept talking beside him. Something about lockdown protocols, fire exits, parent pick-up procedures, and perhaps thanking him for the visit. Dex didn’t hear any of it. He watched the little boy rub his face with his sleeve, watched you reach into your cardigan pocket and produce a tissue because of course you had one ready, because of course you had walked through life expecting the world to hurt these precious little things and had prepared yourself to help.

“Reading slowly just means you get to spend more time with the words,” you told the boy. “That’s not a bad thing.”

The boy sniffled, and you smiled at him.

Dex felt that smile land in his cold heart, somewhere it had no business being.

It would have been easier if you were only beautiful. That would have been manageable. Uncomfortable, maybe, but manageable. Beauty was a fact. Beauty could be observed, catalogued, eventually put away. You were beautiful in a way that seemed unaware of itself, unpolished and terribly human. The cardigan sleeves falling too far over your hands, the loose strand of hair stuck to your cheek, the worn soles of your cheap flats, you smiling so easily for children who probably forgot to thank you for it.

Dex thought you were gorgeous with an alarmed resentment, as if his own body had betrayed him by noticing before his mind had given permission. Then you looked up at him.

Your eyes met his across the library, and for half a second, Dex forgot what face he was supposed to be wearing. You smiled politely, like he was just another adult in the building, not a man with a gun under his jacket teaching staff how to react in case of a school shooting.

“Hi,” you said. “Sorry, do you need the library?”

The principal brightened. “This is our librarian.”

You gave Dex your name. He repeated it silently once. Then again. Then a third time, because it felt like something he should store somewhere safe, somewhere no one else could touch.

“Special Agent Poindexter,” he said, holding out his hand.

You shook it, and your hand was warm. Dex noticed that there was a tiny paper cut near your thumb. 

You were still smiling at him. Not because he was FBI, and not because he was handsome, though he was. You smiled because you were kind.

Fuck. That’s inconvenient.

Pretty made him look, but good made him stay.

That first visit should have been the last. Dex knew that. There was no operational reason for him to return personally. The school’s safety review was a basic one. The principal had his notes, but the follow-up could have been handled by email. A junior agent could have dropped off the printed materials. Anyone could have gone.

But Dex went. That second time, he poked his head to the library, and said hi. You said hi back, right after you told two boys that no, the beanbags were not for wrestling, and yes, you were very impressed by the creativity of the attempt.

Dex couldn’t stop thinking about it for a week.

The third time, he told himself it was because the library’s rear exit needed another assessment. It was technically true. The lock was old, the corridor outside had basically no surveillance, and the staff entrance was too far from the main office. He made it seem like a legitimate concern, when really, it was a neat little justification. Dex was excellent at finding those.

You were reshelving books when he appeared in the doorway, balanced on the tips of your toes as you reached for the top shelf. The hem of your blouse lifted slightly at your waist. It was nothing indecent. Barely anything at all.

Still, his mind went briefly blank. 

He cleared his throat.

You startled, turned, and smiled. “Agent Poindexter.”

Dex liked the sound of it from you. That was inconvenient too.

“Sorry,” you added, stepping down. “Am I in the way?”

“No.”

“Good. Because if you were about to tell me my fiction section is a security risk, I might cry.”

His mouth twitched before he decided to let it. “I’ll leave fiction alone.”

“Very generous of the DOJ.” That’s when he realised you were teasing him. 

Dex looked at you and thought, you have no idea what a dangerous thing that was.

After that, the visits became a pattern.

Not obvious, because Dex was never sloppy when he could help it. He didn’t go every day. He didn’t stand outside the library staring like some lovesick idiot with no self-control. He knew how to make repeated contact look procedural. 

His supervisor barely looked up from the file the fourth time it happened. “Poindexter, you handled the school outreach last week, right?”

“Yes.”

“They’ve got some updated compliance questions. I can send Nadeem.”

Dex immediately shook his head. “I’ll take it.”

His supervisor paused, but Dex kept his face still. “I’m already familiar with the layout,” he said, and what a good excuse that was. 

The whole truth was that he had thought about you every day since the first visit. You came to him through triggers. When he saw children’s drawings in a hallway. A cardigan on a mannequin The smell of old paper. A mug with painted stars on it in a café window, because you had one on your desk.

You were good, and you were pretty, and that combination felt less like attraction and more like orientation. As if Dex had spent his whole life moving without a fixed point and then walked into a school library and found one.

So, yes, he came back to the school. And, yes, eventually, he followed you home.

The first time, he told himself it was because you were the last staff member to leave again and the car park lighting was poor, so he had to make sure you were safe. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and black. You walked out with a tote bag over one shoulder and an armful of books pressed to your chest, juggling your keys between your fingers. 

Dex sat in his car and watched until you pulled out of the lot. Then he followed. He learned the route to your apartment in fourteen minutes. He cleared that you lived in a building with a front door that did not latch unless pulled hard, that the hallway light on your floor flickered, that your window faced the street and your curtains were thin enough to turn your silhouette suggestive when you moved past them with nothing on.

He hated your building immediately. The lock was bad. The street was worse. Your neighbours were careless. The man in 2B smoked on the front steps and watched women walk past like a fucking creep. The laundry room was in the basement. The side gate did not close properly.

Dex catalogued every vulnerability, then sat in his car for twenty-three minutes after your lights went out and told himself this was a reasonable concern.

He was trained to notice risk, and you just had so much of it. You were too open, too trusting, too underpaid to live somewhere safe enough. 

He found out about the money without needing to try very hard.

He figured out your exact job title, your district, and salary ranges within twenty minutes. He knew what you could afford, what you probably couldn’t, what your grocery budget looked like if your car needed work or if the school asked you to buy supplies out of pocket again. And you did, apparently. He saw the receipts in your hand one afternoon when you came out of a discount store with construction paper, glue sticks, tissues, and children’s stickers paid for with your own money.

That bothered him more than it should have. It enraged him. Not because you were helpless. Dex didn’t think that. You were competent in the way good people often were, holding ten pieces of a room together while everyone else assumed the room simply stayed whole on its own. But you were tired and stretched thin. You loved your job, the children, the library with its peeling posters and overhandled paperbacks, but love didn’t pay rent.

I could, he thought. Dex could pay your rent without noticing. He could buy groceries without checking his account. He could fix the lock. Replace the car. Put you somewhere safe and close. That’s… a good reason to ask you out, right?

If he ever had the courage. 

By the fifth visit, you laughed when you saw him. “Again?”

Dex stopped in the library doorway, because he insisted to the bureau that some of the teachers were security risks. “Again.”

“Should I be worried about the state of our emergency preparedness?”

“No.”

“Should I be worried about you?” That caught him off-guard.  Your tone was teasing, but your eyes were warm and curious.

Should I be worried about you?

Yes, he thought. Probably.

Instead, he said, “No.”

You narrowed your eyes in mock suspicion. “I don’t know. Five visits to the school. Either we are extremely unsafe, or you really like laminated evacuation maps.”

Dex looked at the map beside your door. “It’s a good map.”

You burst out laughing.

Dex loved the sound immediately and started to memorise it so he could copy it when you made a joke. More than that, he wanted to be responsible for it. He wanted to know what your laugh sounded like in his car. In his kitchen. Against his mouth.

The thought came so suddenly that his teeth clenched.

You noticed. Your smile softened, and Dex had the devastating impression that you thought you had embarrassed him. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay.” You tilted your head. “Good.”

Good. The word followed him home.

So did you, though not physically. Not yet. But your image, your voice, the way you said his name after he told you to call him Dex, the way you remembered he took tea plain after seeing him drink it once in the staff room. The way you handed him a paper cup and said, “I made too much,” as if generosity was just something that spilled out of you naturally.

And then there were the guys around you.

He had watched a math teacher who lingered at your desk too long after school, making you laugh over some stupid story about a parent email. A divorced father at pick-up who asked whether you ever took private tutoring work and then smiled in a way Dex didn’t like. A man you met for coffee one Friday evening, two neighbourhoods over, at a café with steamed windows and terrible parking.

Dex hadn’t meant to follow you there. That was a lie.

He had followed you there because you had worn lipstick, the kind you probably put on in your rearview mirror after work, thinking no one would notice.

The date was unremarkable. The man was unremarkable. He wore a blue shirt, laughed too loudly, and checked his phone while you were talking. Dex watched from across the street with his hands still on the steering wheel and felt jealousy move through him.

The man was wrong for you.

He was careless, dull, and too impressed with himself. He made you pay for your own tea. That alone felt like a crime.

You left to do some off-the-clock work, and your date stayed. Dex waited until the man left to use the bathroom, then walked into the café and passed close enough to his table to see the phone he had left face-up beside his plate. He saw a message from someone named Laura lit the screen with a heart attached.

Dex smiled. That was useful.

The next morning, he sent an anonymous message to Laura. The following week, you didn’t see blue-shirt again.

You looked a little sad about it on Monday. Dex hated that. Then he hated the man more for making you sad. Then he told himself it was better this way.

It became easier to scare off your dates after that. All it took was an inconvenient scheduling conflict, a resurfaced truth, a gentle nudge. One man had an outstanding warrant for unpaid fines. One was married. One was simply easy to scare with the right look from the right federal agent in a parking lot.

By the sixth visit to the school, there was no reason good enough to fool anyone but himself.

A “Penultimate walkthrough,” he called it, before the final walkthrough next week. 

The principal seemed pleased, though you looked amused. “Penultimate?” you asked when Dex appeared outside the library.

“Yes.”

“Should I be honoured?”

“You should feel secure.”

“I do. The biography section has never been safer.”

He looked at you, and you smiled like you were proud of yourself. Dex couldn’t help but copy that smile back. Your expression changed when you saw it, going still for one second, like you liked him, too.

That day, he walked through the library with you while you pointed out doors and windows and places the children liked to hide during reading hour. This corner was where the overwhelmed ones went. That shelf had the books no one returned on time because they loved them too much. The lamp near the beanbag was too warm if left on all day, but you kept it anyway because the kids said it made the corner feel cozy.

“This is where they go when they need silence,” you said, gesturing toward a little space tucked behind a low shelf. A lamp. A basket of soft toys. Books with soft edges. A handmade sign that read: take a breath.

Dex looked at it.

You had made a place for children to be afraid safely. Of course you had.

“You did this?” he asked.

You shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s not much.”

Dex looked at you. “It is.”

You met his eyes, and for a moment, the library noise faded behind you.

After that, he wanted to give you things. He wanted to give you better shoes. Better locks. A safer car. A warmer apartment. Groceries you did not buy with mental arithmetic running behind your eyes. A kitchen where your tea sat beside his coffee because it belonged there. A bed you didn’t have to assemble yourself. A life where you did not walk to your car alone. He wanted your life folded into his so completely that you never again had to stand unprotected in the world.

It was raining the day he finally asked.

The sky had turned the school windows grey, and the car park outside shone black under the streetlights. Most of the staff had already left. The corridors had emptied, and you were the last one in the library again.

Dex had lingered through a conversation with the principal he barely needed to have after the final walkthrough. He had checked the same exit twice. He had waited near the lobby until your light was the only one still glowing down the hall.

Then you came out with a tote bag sliding down your shoulder and a cardboard box of donated books pressed against your hip. Your umbrella refused to open, and you stared at it like it had stabbed you.

“Need help?”

You startled, then relaxed when you saw him. “Dex.” You laughed, breathless and embarrassed. “Do you just appear whenever I’m losing a fight?”

“Your umbrella is inside out,” he pointed out, before taking the box from you.

You tried to hold on. “I can carry that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you take it?”

“Because it’s raining.”

You looked at him for a second, then smiled, soft and helpless and too fond for his sanity.

“Okay,” you said, as if letting him carry a box was nothing. As if it didn’t make a dark and pleased thought settle low in his chest.

He walked you to your car and put the books in the back seat. He noted the old jumper on the passenger side, the stack of overdue returns, the half-empty water bottle, the evidence of your life that was still not his.

You stood beside him under the broken umbrella, rain misting your hair.

You were gorgeous, he thought.

It struck him then in the stupidest way. No analysis or clinical separation. Just so pretty it made him feel young and strange and almost angry with himself.

“What?” you asked, smiling like you could tell he was staring.

Dex could’ve said nothing. He could have smiled, stepped back, wished you a good night, returned to his car, and come up with another reason to see you next week.

Instead, he looked at you and thought of your whole life together. Then he said it. “Have dinner with me.”

Your smile faded into surprise. The rain tapped against the broken umbrella between you. You blinked once. It wasn’t really a question, was it?  “With you?”

“Yes.”

“As in…”

“A date.”

Your cheeks warmed. Dex watched the colour rise and tilted his head.

“Oh,” you said softly. Then, after a second, you smiled. “Okay.”

Just like that, he got what he wanted. 

—

The first date was dinner at your favourite restaurant, though you couldn’t recall ever telling Dex that.

You paused outside the little place with the handwritten menu in the window, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “Oh,” you said, surprised. “I love this place.”

Dex looked down at you, calm as anything. “Do you?”

You laughed. “I come here all the time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

The lie was smooth, but Dex said it with such calm that you accepted it because you wanted to. So you smiled up at him and said, “Then we have similar taste.”

His eyes held on your face. “Maybe we do.”

“Maybe we belong together then,” you joked.

Dex’s brain went to a catastrophic halt.

You didn’t see it from the outside, not really. His face barely changed. Maybe his eyes went a little too still. Maybe his fingers pressed once, carefully, against your hand where it rested on his sleeve.

But inside him, his heart lit up white-hot. Belong together.

You had said it so lightly. Dex heard it like a verdict. Like the universe had leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder and said, yes, that one.

He opened the restaurant door for you and followed you inside with your words still burning through him.

You had no idea he had chosen this restaurant because he had followed you there three weeks before, parked across the street while you sat by the window with two friends and laughed over a bowl of pasta. You had no idea he had watched you order the same thing twice. You had no idea he knew which seat you liked, which dessert you split with your friend and pretended not to want more of, which route you took home afterward, how tightly you held your coat closed when the wind picked up.

But yeah, dinner was great. 

The second date was coffee because you were trying to take things slower.

He was already there when you arrived, sitting by the window with your drink waiting in front of the empty chair. Your exact order, right size, right syrup.  He claimed similar taste innocently again. 

You should have been alarmed. Instead, you chuckled and sat down.

Coffee turned into a walk. The walk turned into him standing beside your car, close enough that your shoulder brushed his sleeve. He looked at your mouth once, then back at your eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t even answer. You just stood on your tip toes and kissed him, carefully at first. But his hand came to cup your face, so you made a hum into his mouth and felt him unravel. 

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. You smiled, dazed. 

The third date was dinner at his apartment.

He cooked for you, because apparently Dex did everything like it was a mission and feeding you was no exception. His apartment was neat  and perfectly arranged, but then you were there with your jacket on the back of his chair and your laugh in his kitchen, and he kept looking at those little disruptions were worth you being here.

The food was good, so you smiled and pushed a little harder. “You’re very good at taking care of me.”

Dex went still, and you could’ve sworn his ears went pink. 

After dinner, you kissed him on the couch. That was all it was supposed to be: A kiss.

Yes, maybe Dex made it feel a little too deep. Maybe it was too hungry. Maybe it was a little reckless, considering this was only the third date and you weren't the kind of woman who did things like this. You didn’t tumble into a man’s bed after three dates and let your body make decisions your brain would have to defend in the morning.

Your brain was trying, to be fair. The little voices there had formed a whole committee meeting about it.

This is too fast. This is insane. You have work tomorrow. You barely know him.

Unfortunately, Dex was kissing you, open-mouthed and desperate, his hands tight on your waist, breathing against you like every second of restraint physically hurt him, and your body didn’t seem particularly interested in attending the discussion.

You climbed into his lap because there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

Dex let out a breathy moan when you settled over him,  his head tipping back against the couch. His shirt was still on, but you had already pulled half the buttons open, enough to get your hands on skin, enough to feel his chest rise under your palms every time your mouth found his again.

Your skirt was hiked high around your thighs, his fingers trembling at the hem of it.

Dex, who could easily take what he wanted, sat beneath you with his hands on your thighs and waited for you to tell him he was allowed.

You kissed him harder for it.

His mouth opened under yours immediately, wet and so eager that you felt your stomach twist. You threaded your fingers into his hair and tugged once, just to steady yourself, just to feel him closer.

Dex sighed into your mouth.

“Oh,” you whispered, breathless.

His eyes opened, fixed on you. You smiled because you understood then that Benjamin Poindexter liked being told what to do.

He wanted to be good for you. He wanted to earn every sound you made.

You shifted in his lap, and his whole body reacted. His fingers slid higher under your skirt, then stopped again.

“Dex,” you breathed.

His throat worked. “Tell me.”

You leaned down, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “Touch me.”

He obeyed so fast it made you gasp.

Your panties were pulled to the side with clumsy, shaking urgency, his pants shoved down just enough because neither of you had the patience anymore. It was filthy how desperate it was. There was no time for the bedroom, no careful undressing, no pretending this was slower than it was. It was you in his lap, his open shirt under your hands, your skirt bunched around your waist, both of you panting into each other’s mouths like you had been struck by fucking lightning.

He was so intense you expected him to take over. Because he could’ve flipped you under him. He could have pinned you to the couch and made you forget every thought you had ever had. He had the body, he had muscles, he had the skills. 

Instead, he looked at you like he needed permission to breathe. “Like that?” he breathed.

You nodded, nails dragging over his chest nodding frantically. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Dex listened like obedience was devotion, like your pleasure was a commandment, like the only thing in the world that mattered was keeping you exactly like this: skirt up, mouth open, shaking in his lap while he looked up at you like you were holy.

You knew this was too quick. You never had one night stands. Even three dates was way too quick, by your standards. 

But his hands were on your waist, his shirt was open, his breathing was breaking, and when you whispered, “Fuck, baby,” he shuddered so hard beneath you that all your remaining common sense died on the couch.

Afterward, you stayed folded against him, both of you warm and breathless, your face tucked into his neck.

Dex’s hand moved slowly up your back, careful now. 

You lifted your head enough to look at him. His hair was wrecked. His mouth was red. His eyes were softer than you had ever seen them, though there was still a frightening stillness underneath, satisfied and hungry and already too attached.

You touched his cheek. “I should probably go home.”

Dex went still.

He looked at you from beneath those dark lashes, still flushed, still breathing hard, still beautiful enough to make bad decisions feel like fate. “Stay the night,” he said, trying not to say please.

You swallowed. “I have work tomorrow.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“My things are at home.”

“You can wear something of mine.”

“I need my toothbrush.”

“I have a spare.”

A laugh slipped out of you, helpless and fond. Of course he did. 

Dex’s mouth barely moved, and it was always a smile.

He looked at you like he needed you to say yes and hated that you could tell. Like letting you leave after this would physically hurt. Like you had crawled into his lap and accidentally turned yourself into the centre of his orbit.

You should go home. Your sensible little inner committee was banging on the table now.

But Dex looked at you like he was unaware he had puppy dog eyes, and you couldn’t say no to that, right? 

So you kissed him once. “M’kay, baby,” you said.

Dex held you tighter then, giving an upbeat little whine as he peppered kisses on your collarbone.

Little did you know, there was no going back now. 

—

The next day, Dex picked you up from work, even though you hadn’t asked him to.

He had driven you that morning as promised, his hands on your waist while he kissed you goodbye like he was trying not to follow you into the school library.

You had spent the whole day after that with his shirt on, but it was terribly oversized on you. Still, you managed to make it look intentional under your blazer, tucked and adjusted just enough that no one could tell. You had pinned your hair neatly, put your librarian face on, and acted very normal. Very professional of you, honestly.

Then the final bell rang, the library emptied, and by the time you stepped out of the front entrance with your bag over your shoulder, Dex was already there, waiting by his car with a suit jacket on and badge hidden. 

You stopped mid-step. “Oh,” you said, lighting up.  Beside you, Jonathan stopped too.

Jonathan, the music teacher. Nice Jonathan. Harmless Jonathan. Jonathan who lived two streets away from you and always carried a canvas tote bag with an embarrassing number of reusable water bottles inside it. He had been walking with you because you didn’t have your car with you and he offered to drive you home because you were both headed in the same direction. 

Dex’s grip tightened around his keys.

You were still wearing his shirt, and this man wanted to take you home? Cute.

“Dex?” you called, surprised.

Dex barely spared Johnathan a glance. He came to you instead, handsome in that frightening l way, his attention fixed you that it made the other man feel like background noise.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“Picking you up.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Why?”

Because you were wearing my shirt. Because I spent all day knowing you were out of sight. Because I don’t like it when you’re not with me.

“Your car’s not here,” he said, and that was reasonable enough, right?

“Oh.” You glanced back. “Jonathan was going to offer me a ride. He lives a few blocks away, so—”

“No.” The word came out flat.

You tilted your head, confused. You tried to recover, sweet thing that you were, turning half toward the man beside you. “Dex, this is Jonathan. He’s the music teacher. Jonathan, this is—”

Dex opened the passenger door. “You’re coming with me.”

Jonathan stopped with his polite smile halfway formed.

You looked at Dex for a second, and your sensible little inner voice probably tried to say something about how this was strange. 

Then Dex looked at you, and you melted, because fuck! Some foolish, lovesick part of you found that endearing. He came all this way for me? 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jonathan,” you said gently.

Dex shut the passenger door after you climbed in and stood there for one extra second, hand still on the handle, the word burning through him. What did that mean?

He got into the car.

The drive started silent. You settled beside him, and Dex saw you cozy up one the corner of his eye and had to tighten both hands on the wheel.

“Tomorrow?” he asked finally.

You looked over. “Hm?”

“You said you’d see him tomorrow.”

A little smile pulled at your mouth. You leaned across the console and kissed his cheek, like you thought jealousy was cute when it came from him.

“We work together, Dex.”

Oh. Okay. Okay. That’s fine, right?

Normal boyfriends were fine with that, right?

Still.

Then, asked if you wanted to come over to his place again because he couldn’t help himself. Because having you in the passenger seat made it feel obscene to let you leave again. Because you were already dressed in his things and smelled faintly like his apartment and he couldn’t understand why the day had to end anywhere else.

You looked down at yourself and laughed. “Dex, I am literally wearing your clothes. I need to go to mine.”

He kept his expression calm, but his fingers went still on the wheel.

You noticed enough to furrow your brows. “I’ve got work stuff to do,” you said. “I’ll call soon, okay?”

He nodded. He could do that. He could be normal. He could drive you to your car and let you go back to your apartment with its bad lock and pathetic hallway light and no trace of him except the marks he had left under your clothes. He could.

He pulled up beside your car outside your building and watched you unbuckle your seatbelt. You said your goodbyes and were halfway out when he blurted out, “I love you.”

You stopped.

Fuck. Fuck! 

He had not planned it like that. Not in the car, and definitely not with you leaving. But there it was.

You turned back to him slowly.

For a second, you bit your lip in shock. 

It was quick. Too quick to say that. You’ve been going on dates for what? Two weeks? 

You supposed he’d been around the school for two months now with the outreach program. But even that didn’t really make sense, right?

So now, your inner committee was no longer holding a meeting. It was pounding on the table, screaming that this was insane, that love wasn’t supposed to arrive between a third date and a school pick-up, that normal people didn’t do this.

But Dex was looking at you like you hung the stars for him. 

So leaned back into the car and kissed him. Gently first, then deeper, because his hand found your jaw like he had been waiting for permission to touch you again since the school gates.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

Oh. Oh.

You left before you could take it back.

Dex watched you wave from your door, hands resting on the wheel, mouth curved in a small, helpless smile he couldn’t seem to stop.

She loves me.

The thought repeated all the way home.

She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.

By the time he reached his apartment, he was still smiling.

Then he opened the door, and the smile vanished immediately because you were not there.

The apartment was exactly the same as it had been that morning, clean and perfectly ordered, but suddenly none of that mattered. The couch was empty. The kitchen was empty. The bed was empty. All those neat, controlled rooms had become useless because you weren’t inside them.

Dex stood in the doorway with his keys in his hand and felt his stomach in him turn over.

You loved him, so why were you not here?

The question sat in his head with terrible simplicity. 

You loved him. He loved you. He could take care of you. He had the space, the money, the locks, the discipline. Your apartment was unsafe. Your building was bad. Your neighbours were careless. Jonathan from music lived too close. The world kept touching you and taking from you and making you tired.

Here was safer. Here, it made sense. Here, he could see you.

The thought came fully formed before he knew to stop it.

He could go get you.

He could get in the car. Drive to your apartment. Knock. Tell you that you should change your mind. Tell you the city was unsafe. Tell you your lock was bad. Tell you to pack a bag. Tell you you belonged in his apartment. Tell you until you believed him.

If you said no, he could still bring you back.

He was stronger than you. Faster than you. He was trained. He knew exactly how to move you without hurting too badly. He could overpower you, get you inside his apartment, lock the door, hide the keys, take your phone just for a while. He’d you keep warm. Feed you. Talk to you until the panic passed. He’d do that just until you understood. Because you would understand.

You loved him, so eventually you would understand that this was not cruelty, right?  This was not punishment. This was him seeing the truth faster than you did. This was him making the hard decision because someone had to. This was him saving you from all the places that were not him.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise that was kidnapping.

Actually, legally, literally kidnapping.

Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Coercion. Felony. It was bad.

“Oh,” he whispered. Then, after a beat, “Shit.”

His breath went wrong. The heat in him snapped into panic so quickly he nearly staggered. He saw himself then, not as a man in love, not as someone protecting his girlfriend, but as exactly the kind of thing you would need protecting from.

No.

No, no, no.

He backed away from the door like it had opened onto a cliff.

He loved you. He loved you. He wasn’t going to make you afraid of him. He wasn’t going to put his hands on you. He wasn’t going to lock you inside his life and pretend that was the same thing as being chosen.

Even if some awful part of him wanted to. Especially because some awful part of him wanted to.

Dex went to the drawer with shaking hands and pulled out the tapes.

Dr. Eileen Mercer’s voice filled the apartment through a soft crackle of static. “Your internal compass isn’t broken, Dex. It just works better with a North Star to guide you.”

Dex sank onto the couch.

North Star.

That was what you were.

Of course you were. You, with your kind heart and your gentle voice and your stupidly good heart. You, making safe corners for children. 

He had simply made the catastrophic mistake of falling in love with the star.  Which complicated things.

Because you were supposed to guide him, not belong to him. You were supposed to be fixed above him, untouchable enough to follow. Not in his apartment. Not in his bed. Not wearing his shirt and saying I love you in his car like you had any idea what those words would do to a man like him.

Dex pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes and forced himself to breathe while the tape kept playing through the static.

The apartment was still wrong without you. His hands still shook. The need to leave and get you didn’t disappear just because he had named it correctly. The desire sat there, dark and patient, waiting for him to mistake it for devotion again. But he stayed where he was.

He stayed on the couch with his teeth clenched so hard it ached, listening to the tape like it was the only thing holding him in place.

He loved you. That had to mean something better than possession. It had to.

So Dex sat in the empty apartment and tried, breath by breath, to become the kind of man who could love his North Star without building a sky small enough to trap her.

—

Dex barely made it through the week by hearing your voice through the phone.

You were busy with the school, chaperoning a trip, dealing with children and permission slips and packed lunches and museum gift shops, so he did the good thing, the normal thing. He didn’t show up. He didn’t follow the bus route. He didn’t appear outside your apartment just because he knew you would be exhausted.

Well. Maybe he just did it once, but he didn’t even stop! He just took a quick peek around the block to make sure you got home safe. 

After that, he took it one day at a time.

At night, he lay in bed with the phone pressed to his ear and listened to you talk when you called. You told him about the children, the chaos, the little girl who tried to correct the tour guide, the boy who cried because his sandwich got crushed in his bag.

He hated that he couldn't tell if you were warm enough. Hated that you sounded exhausted and he wasn’t there to put a blanket over your shoulders or press his mouth to your temple or make the world stop asking things of you for five minutes. But he behaved.

When you said, “I’m so tired, baby,” he closed his eyes like the world wrapped a hand around his throat.

When you said, “I miss you,” he pressed his fist against his mouth until the feeling passed enough for him to answer normally.

“I miss you too.” An understatement so violent it almost made him laugh.

Then you came back to regular life, and started spending more time with him. 

And naturally, you started spending more nights at his place.

It was easy. His apartment was closer to the school. His shower was better. His fridge always had food you liked. Your tea was already in his cupboard. Your toothbrush was still in his bathroom from that first night, and the spare charger by his bed somehow became yours without either of you discussing it.

One night a week became two. Two nights a week became most of the week.

Your laundry ended up in his machine. Your favourite cardigan stayed folded in his bedroom. Your substitute teaching papers got graded at his kitchen table while he made dinner. Your commute became easier because he drove you when he could, and when he couldn’t, he made sure your car had petrol, the tyres were checked, and the weird noise under the hood had been fixed before it became a problem.

It was dangerous, how much easier he made your life.

Dangerous because you were a school librarian on a school librarian salary, and Dex had big boy FBI paychecks and paid for groceries without mentally rearranging the rest of the month around it.

You tried to argue about that once. He looked genuinely offended.

“I should help,” you said.

“You do.”

“I mean with bills.”

“You buy supplies for children who are not yours because no one else will. Let me pay for dinner.”

That shut you up, not because it was fair. But because it was kind. Or because it sounded kind. Or because, with Dex, the difference had started to blur.

Your car made a noise; he had it checked. Your shoes wore thin; a new pair appeared by the door. You mentioned once that you were out of your favourite cereal, and the next morning there were two boxes in his cupboard.

By five months, you were barely at your own apartment.

You still paid rent. You still had mail there. Technically, you still lived there. But most nights, you went home to Dex.

Then one night, while you sat at his kitchen table grading reading logs and wearing one of his shirts under your cardigan, Dex said, “You should move in.”

You looked up. “What?”

“You should move in here.”

He said it so calmly. Like he was pointing out the weather. Like he had not been waiting weeks to say it. Like he had not already measured the space in his closet, looked up your lease date, and made sure there was room for your books.

You felt your inner committee rise from the dead.

Babe. What the fuck. Five months. Are you actually considering this? What’s wrong with you? Huh?

So you pushed back, but not very well.

“Dex,” you said, looking around his apartment. “We’ve been dating for five months.”

“I know.”

“Moving in would be very quick.”

“I know.”

But would it? You were at his kitchen table in one of his shirts, your papers stacked on his coffee table, your mug in his sink, your shoes by his door. Half your life was already there.

Suddenly, Dex leaned down and kissed you before you could keep arguing.

He did it because he had seen men do it in movies when they wanted to calm the woman they loved. 

That was how affection started with him, really.  He imitated touch. He put a hand on your waist because that was what boyfriends did. He rubbed circles over your hip because that was what loving partners did.

But then you melted under his hands and sighed into his mouth. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his shirt.

And Dex thought, oh. So that was what it was supposed to feel like.

So after the first time, it no longer felt like pretending. It was no longer fake, no longer a costume he wore to convince you he could be normal.

He liked this. He liked the warmth beneath his palms. Liked the trusting weight of you leaning into him. Liked that touching you made him feel whole.  His thumbs kept moving in slow circles at your hips, more because he wanted to than because he remembered he was supposed to.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You closed your eyes like the words had done exactly what he hoped they would. “Dex…”

“You love me too.”

You laughed softly. “That is a terrible argument.”

“It’s my best one.”

Unfortunately, it was.

You hummed, but you were smiling now, and Dex felt his whole chest go warm.

He kissed you again, a little braver this time, still rubbing those gentle circles into your hips like he had finally found a love language that made sense in his hands.

You sighed, and he smiled against your mouth. It surprised him, even after five months, how much he wanted to be good at this. 

“Okay,” you whispered.

Dex went very still.

You opened your eyes and looked up at him, soft and doomed and already half his. “Okay, baby. I’ll move in.”

—

People got weird when you told them you had moved in with Dex.

Your friends did that careful-smile thing. Your mother went quiet on the phone before saying, “Already?” like the word had three question marks and a police report attached. One coworker just blinked at you over her mug and said, “Wow. That’s… fast.”

You kept giving the same answers. My lease was ending. His place is closer. It makes sense financially. He takes care of me.

Jonathan was the most obvious about it.

You told him in the staff room, after he was complaining about one of his classes committing recorder-based psychological warfare. “I moved in with Dex,” you said, trying to sound casual.

Slowly, he turned around. “Your fed boyfriend?”

“He has a name.”

“Agent Intense?”

“Dex.”

“Right. Your fed boyfriend.” He stared at you. “That’s so fast.”

You sighed. Here we go again. “My lease was ending.”

“You’ve known him for six months.”

“If you count his school outreach, seven actually.”

“That’s not better.”

You crossed your arms, already defensive. “He’s not bad.”

“I didn’t say bad,” he shrugged, “I think more like…  creepy.”

“Jonathan.”

“What? He once looked at me like I was trying to steal you because I offered you a ride home.”

“He’s just protective, that’s all,” you huffed.

“I’m gay.”

“I know that.”

“Does he?”

“He does now,” you said.

“Does he care?”

You opened your mouth and closed it. Because no, Dex didn’t care when you told him. Johnathan was still just another person standing between you and him, platonic or romantic or whatever. Jonathan could have been gay, married, celibate, and allergic to women, and Dex still would have watched him with that flat suspicion the second he stood too close to you.

Jonathan pointed his teaspoon at you. “Exactly.”

Your phone buzzed before you could answer.

Dex: Did you eat lunch?

You smiled and held up the phone like evidence. “See? He’s sweet.”

Jonathan looked at the message, then at you. “Sure,” he said carefully. “Sweet.”

You texted back yes, baby, and when Dex replied within seconds, Jonathan sighed. You ignored him.

After all, Dex cared. That was all.

—

The people who thought the move-in was quick were in for a treat, because one month after you moved into Dex’s apartment, he asked you to marry him in the back seat of his car.

See, you had shown up because summer holidays had made you stupid with missing him. You were bored. You had no school, no library chaos, no children asking where the glitter glue went. Just too much free time and the embarrassing realization that you had become the kind of woman who missed her boyfriend at eleven-thirty in the morning like an addict running out of nicotine patches.

So you brought him lunch and went to his workplace. That was a normal girlfriend thing, right? Except the lunch did not get opened.

Dex had barely gotten the car door shut before you were kissing him, and he had barely made it through the first breath of your mouth before his hand slid under your thigh and dragged you into his lap in the back seat.

“Dex,” you laughed into his mouth.

He made a low and lewd sound into his mouth. Then his hands were on you again, pushing your skirt up around your hips with a little too much force, a little too much need, until the seam gave with an unmistakable rip of fabric.

Dex stared at the torn fabric in his hand with the horrified focus of a man who had committed a federal offence against cotton blend. “I’ll buy you another one.”

“That is not the point,” you chuckled.

“I’ll buy you five.”

You should have been annoyed. But his eyes were black with want, and there was something so obscenely flattering about Benjamin Poindexter accidentally ruining your clothes because he needed you too badly to be careful. So you tightened your fist in his tie and pulled. “Later,” you whispered.

Dex obeyed, because liked it when you pulled him by it. He liked the pressure, the direction, the filthy little reminder that he was still half-dressed for work while you were undoing him in the back of his own car. His mouth opened under yours, hands clamped on your hips like he was trying not to lose the last piece of his mind.

Your inner committee, exhausted from the moving-in situation and still technically on unpaid leave, attempted to return to service.

Babe. This is his workplace. This is a federal garage.

Babe, your skirt is ripped.

Babe, we cannot keep replacing clothes every time this man gets horny and emotional.

Then Dex kissed down your throat and the committee immediately lost quorum.

By the time you were done and either of you remembered he had to go back inside, the windows were fogged at the edges. His hair was ruined from your hands. His tie was loose and crooked. His shirt was open at the collar, your lipstick low enough on his skin that he would need to button all the way up and pray no one noticed. His mouth was swollen. 

You sat in his lap, skirt torn and shoved badly back into place, one hand still looped lazily around his tie. “You have to go back in,” you whispered.

His forehead rested against yours. “I know.”

“You look…”

His eyes lifted to yours.

You smiled. “Compromised.”

Dex’s mouth twitched. His thumbs moved on your thighs, circling through the thin fabric of your ruined skirt.

You tugged his tie gently. “I should let you go.”

His hands tightened, only barely.

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, as if he would die if he let you leave without saying it first.

For a second, you just stared at him. Somewhere inside your head, your inner committee walked back into the room, saw the situation, and immediately considered retiring.

Babe, no. Babe, absolutely not. Babe, stand up for yourself!

“What?” you managed to choke out.

“Marry me,” Dex calmly, like the idea had been sitting in him for weeks, waiting for the right opening, and apparently the right opening was you flushed and breathless in his back seat. 

“Dex.”

“I love you.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Your inner committee sighed so hard the lights flickered.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter. “You love me. We already live together. It gives you legal protection. If something happens to me, you’re taken care of. If something happens to you, they call me first.”

“You are making a case,” you realised, though you shouldn't have been surprised.

He just shrugged. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t get married.”

There it was, the simple Dex logic of it: I love you. You love me. Why wouldn’t we?

It was reasonable if you ignored the fact that he was clearly halfway to losing his mind and had probably been planning this long before he said it out loud. Because sure, the practical reasons were true. But underneath all that, there was the darker, sweeter logic he kept tucked behind his teeth: If you were only his girlfriend, you could change your mind. You could wake up one morning, decide he was too much, pack a bag, and walk out before he had time to kiss you and remind you how gentle he could be when he was trying. A girlfriend could leave in one terrible conversation. A wife had to take steps.

And Dex loved steps. You’d have to go through lawyers, papers, and waiting periods. A marriage would buy him time, and time meant he could come to you, he could hold your face, and remind you that you loved him as much as he loved you. He would never hurt. But if the law could slow you down long enough for him to convince you that leaving was a mistake, Dex couldn’t help loving that, too.

He didn’t say that, though. He only looked at you with his hair mussed and his mouth ruined and said, “It makes sense.”

Your inner committee made one last brave attempt: Babe. Please. We JUST moved in.

But you banged the gavel at the head of your imaginary table and pouted. But look at him! He’s so hot! 

In the real world, Dex was looking at you like you were already his wife, like the ring was only a formality. Then he kissed you, tenderly this time.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth.

The committee dropped their clipboard. Fine, you win, they seemed to say, Whatever you say, handsome.

You laughed weakly into the kiss, and Dex pulled back just enough to look at you.

“What?”

You touched his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and felt him lean into it like affection was still new enough to surprise him.

“Yes,” you whispered, hand tightening in his tie. “Yes, baby. I’ll marry you.”

For a second, he looked almost scared by how happy it made him. Then his arms locked around your waist and pulled you close, his face turning into your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“But you really do have to go back inside,” you whispered with a chuckle.

Dex lifted his head. He looked ruined, happy, and possessive in a way that should have made you run but somehow only made you kiss him again. “I have ten more minutes.”

You giggled and pulled him in by the tie.

Your inner committee walked directly into the sea, never to be seen again.

—

Dex let you pick the rings.

The engagement ring first, because he said you were the one wearing it, so you should love it. Then the wedding bands, including his, even though he tried to act like he didn’t care what his looked like. That lasted until you slid a simple band onto his finger in the shop and watched his whole face go still, almost overwhelmed.

A month later, you married him at the courthouse.

It was too soon for anyone around you to feel truly comfortable about it. Your family came anyway. Your friends came anyway. Even Jonathan, looking like he had accepted his role as the last remaining voice of reason, and still failing anyway. On Dex’s side, there was a couple of coworkers standing near the back in neat suits, polite and reserved, present more like witnesses than family.

Dex had no parents, no siblings, no cousins, no childhood friends with embarrassing stories. No one who could say they had known him when he was young. No one who could reassure your parents he was a good person through and through. Just coworkers, Ray congratulating him as the rest of his coworkers stood on the courthouse hallway while your side filled the room with nervous affection and badly hidden concern.

You saw the way your mother looked at him. The way your friends glanced at one another when they realised there was no one on his side who really belonged to him. It made them uneasy, and because you loved him, you rushed to explain it in your head before anyone even asked. His parents were dead. He grew up alone. It was complicated. He didn't have people the way other people had people.

You said little pieces of that aloud, as if it explained half of it away. Maybe to you, it did. Maybe that was a teeny part of the reason you kept choosing him. Dex had no one, and then he had you. But it was also tender, in its own damaged way. He stood across the room in his suit, eyes finding you every few seconds as if checking that you were still real, still walking toward him eventually. He looked alone until he looked at you.

The problem was not that Dex didn't love you. Anyone with eyes could see that he clearly did. That was half the horror, really. 

He loved you devoutly, too much for such a small courthouse. His attention followed you like a sniper scope. When someone hugged you, his eyes moved there. When Jonathan made you laugh, his face soured. When you looked at him, though, everything in him relaxed so completely that even your worried friends had to see it.

The ceremony itself was almost absurdly short, just a few legal words. A few signatures. Then came the ring that he slid on to your finger with a reverence that made your throat ache. His thumb lingered over the band once it was in place, brushing the metal like proof, like possession he was trying very hard to make gentle.

Your family saw it. Your friends saw it. Ray probably saw it too. But no one said anything anymore. They had tried to warn you. They had tried to tell you it was fast, intense, worrying. They had tried to point out all the red flags. But standing there, with Dex looking at your ring like the world had finally given him permission to keep the one good thing he had found, you knew why none of their warnings had worked.

Because you knew they were not entirely wrong. You just loved him anyway.

When Dex kissed you, it was gentle enough to make your mother cry. His hand came to your cheek, and his mouth touched yours like he was afraid of doing it wrong in front of everyone. But you felt the restraint beneath it, the hunger and devotion. The way he kissed you softly because that was what you deserved, even when every dark part of him wanted to hold on harder and bruise and mark his territory.

—

Two years later, Dex was in prison.

Jonathan tried not to say I told you so. To his credit, he really did try. He stood in your apartment after everything went public, arms folded too tightly, mouth pressed into a line while the news tore the FBI corruption apart in digestible pieces. Even family and friends looked at you like this was the ending they had feared from the start.

But you knew better.

Not because Dex was innocent. He wasn’t. You loved him too much to lie about that. He had done terrible things. There were parts of him that had always been hungry for direction, always been too easy for the wrong man to use.

And Fisk had used him perfectly.He had found every fracture in Dex and pressed his thumb into it. The instability, the need to be useful. The desperate, obsessive love Dex had for you. 

Fisk kept you in a basement beneath one of his shell properties and let the world mourn you.

That was the cruelty of it: Fisk did not need you dead. Dead was final. Dead meant there was nothing left to use. But alive, hidden in a cold and windowless place? That made you useful. That made you leverage. Fisk could keep your body locked away while giving Dex a grief designed to break him.

So Fisk staged your death. He built the lie piece by piece. He staged an accident, a fire. The reports say that the body burned beyond recognition was yours, and even had an urn with someone else’s ashes in it with your paperwork attached just in case people started asking questions.

Dex believed it, because why wouldn’t he? Fisk made sure every piece fit. Even Matt believed it for a while. Everyone did.

So when Dex found it, he carried the urn like it was alive. He thought he figured out that Fisk was manipulating him, which was correct. He thought that Fisk had killed you, which was false.

He put the ashes in the passenger seat. He drove to the hotel with one hand on the wheel and the other reaching over sometimes, hovering near the metal like it might feel lonely. He talked to it in that broken voice of his, the one he would have been humiliated for anyone living to hear. He told the urn things. He apologised. He told you he loved you.

Then Dex’s spine broke.

And you were found by the cops shortly after, alive. Bruised, starved, shaking under a blanket in the basement Fisk had buried you in, still asking for Dex before your voice had fully come back.

So when they told you he went into surgery under guard, he had fought your way into that hospital room on the only ground no one could deny: you were his wife, his next of kin, his legal family. You should be allowed in, and you eventually got what you wanted. 

During recovery, he looked wrong under hospital lights. The tubes and monitors and bandages made him look less like the terrifying thing the news kept replaying. Guards stood by the door. His wrists were shackled to the bed rails, his ankles too. You scoffed at that but couldn’t do anything about it, really. 

When his eyes opened, he came back fighting. His hands jerked against the restraints, chains snapping taut with a hard metal sound that made one of the guards shift forward.

“Don’t,” you said quickly. “Dex, don’t.”

His head turned and saw you. Suddenly, thoughts halted to a stop.

You had seen Dex angry. Jealous. Focused. You had seen him desperate in your bed and gentle in your kitchen. You had seen him worshipful, frightening, almost boyish with love.

You had never seen him look like that. Like he was staring at a ghost and trying to decide whether believing in it would kill him.

His mouth parted, but sound came out.

You stepped closer, hands trembling. “Hi, baby.”

Dex’s breath broke. “You’re alive.”

Your chest caved in. “yeah.”

“No.” His voice cracked in disbelief. “No, I saw— Fisk said—”

“I know.”

“You’re alive,” he said again, louder now, almost frantic. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”

“I’m here.”

The chains snapped tight again when he tried to reach for you. Pain tore across his nerves, but he barely seemed to feel it. His eyes stayed locked on yours,wild and terrified, like if he looked away, you would vanish and the whole nightmare would become true again.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

“I know, baby.”

You moved to him before anyone could stop you. Your fingers found his hand where the shackle allowed, careful around the bruised skin. His grip closed around yours instantly, weak but desperate, like even broken he could not help trying to hold on.

Your wedding ring caught the light. It was a reminder that he was still yours, you were still his, and whatever was left of him seemed to collapse under the proof.

“You’re alive.”

—

Dex was incarcerated after he healed enough to be moved.

Not rehabilitated. Not treated. Incarcerated.

They put him in solitary confinement like that could contain him. Like isolation would ever make him better. Like locking him away from voices and faces and human contact would somehow fix a man whose worst injuries had always come from being left alone too long with his own head.

You hated it. So for three years, you fought to get your husband moved somewhere that might actually help him.

Three years of forms, lawyers, psychiatric evaluations, and rejected petitions. Three years of people looking at Benjamin Poindexter and seeing only what he had done, three years of people looking at you, Mrs. Poindexter, as if you were insane because you still loved him. Three years of explaining, again and again, that solitary confinement was not treatment. And Dex had always been dangerous when he was quiet.

Your old school library job no longer paid enough to carry the life Fisk had torn apart, so you took a better job at a public library. It's a better salary, but longer hours. More responsibility. You now had to think about staff rotas, community programmes, council meetings, difficult patrons, funding cuts, late nights under fluorescent lights while you built displays and answered emails with your wedding ring flashing every time your hands crossed the keyboard.

Every other day, you went to the prison.

Sometimes straight from work, your blazer wrinkled, your tote bag full of library paperwork, your lipstick faded from too many cups of coffee. Sometimes on your days off, when you could pretend the visit was the centre of the day instead of an activity squeezed between legal calls and grocery shopping and a life you had never wanted to live without him in it.

Dex always noticed when you were tired before you said it. He noticed when your shoes were new. He noticed when you had cut your hair, even slightly. He noticed when you had skipped lunch and lied about it. Even in prison uniform, even under the dead light of the visiting room, Dex was still your husband in all the ways that made people uncomfortable and all the ways that kept you coming back.

You told him about your days. You told him about the elderly man who came into the library every Wednesday to read the newspaper and complain about the chairs. The little girl who asked for “a book with a dragon but not a mean dragon because mean dragons have bad vibes.” The teenager who pretended not to care about poetry and then checked out three collections when his friends were not looking. You told him about staff meetings, leaky ceilings, broken printers, new shelving systems.

There were visits where he barely spoke. But even then, his eyes stayed on you. Even then, his fingers moved toward yours. Even then, when you said, “Baby,” parts of him came back to the surface.

You kept fighting because he needed help.

Then one afternoon, after three years of pushing against walls that did not move, one finally gave. The blip, after all, freed some space up. Though you really shouldn't celebrate such a tragedy, it was hard to ignore the fact that this time, it worked in your favor. That day, you carried the news into the visiting room.

His eyes moved over your face, your hands, the folder tucked beneath your arm. “What’s that?” he asked.

You smiled, biting your lip, “I have good news.”

You reached across the table. This time, they let you hold his hand. It was a small mercy. His fingers closed around yours immediately, like he could feel the tremor in you and wanted to steady it without frightening it away.

“A facility we applied to reviewed your case,” you said. “It’s looking good. The transfer is pending final approval.”

Dex didn’t move. You kept going before fear could steal the words from you.

“It’s a secure psychiatric institution. It’s not freedom, I know that. But it’s not solitary. You’d have doctors, actual treatment, scheduled therapy, medication reviews. You wouldn’t be in shackles.”

His face remained controlled, but you knew him too well. You saw the tiny shift in his breathing. 

“It’s going to be better,” you whispered. “Okay? Not perfect. Not easy. But better. You won’t be alone in a box, and we get longer visitation hours, okay?”

Dex was quiet for a long moment. Then he nodded once. “That’s good.”

Your laugh came out broken, because part of you still found that endearing. “That’s good? That’s all you have?”

His mouth almost softened, guilty at the thought of offending you. “It’s very good,” he amended.

You squeezed his hand, and for one rare second, the visiting room didn’t feel quite so much like a cage. It felt like a door opening somewhere far away.Then Dex looked up again. “But I hope my request gets approved before I get moved.”

“Request?” You blinked. “For what?”

He held your gaze with the seriousness of a man discussing nothing more important than bills. “A conjugal visit.”

For a moment, your mind simply stopped. “What?”

“A conjugal visit,” he repeated, as if you might not have heard him the first time.

You stared at him. Of course he had thought of that.

In three years of legal petitions, medical reviews, prison visits, and fighting to have him treated like a person instead of a weapon, you had somehow not allowed yourself to think about that part. About being his wife in that way still. About how long it had been since he had touched you without guards and tables and rules between you. Dex had, though.

“Dex,” you said softly, rubbing slow circles on his hand.

“What?”

“You are in solitary confinement.”

“I know.”

“You’re probably not getting approved for a conjugal visit.”

“Probably not.”

His expression didn't change, but he squeezed your hand and your stomach turned over despite yourself. You leaned forward as much as the table allowed. The guard near the door shifted, but you ignored him. You kissed the edge of Dex’s mouth, brief and soft, but still enough to make his breath catch.

“Let’s focus on this, yeah?” you whispered.

His eyes stayed on yours. For a second, the hunger in him quieted, almost obedient. He nodded once. “Okay.”

Your hand stayed in his until the guard told you time was up. Dex didn’t let go until he had to.

—

He got approved. Somehow, Benjamin Poindexter got approved for a conjugal visit.

You read the notice three times in your kitchen, work bag sliding off your shoulder, lanyard still around your neck, your shoes aching from a long day on your feet. The letter was painfully plain and administrative. But it was approved nonetheless.

You stared at it until the paper blurred. “What the fuck?” you whispered.

Because there was no way. There was no reasonable, lawful way that your husband, a convicted killer, a high-risk prisoner, had been granted that kind of access.

You knew then that Dex had done something. Nothing obvious enough to get the request pulled. He might have threatened a guard. Maybe Dex had mentioned a name, a detail, some small piece of information he shouldn’t have known and let them do the rest.

You should have been horrified. Mostly, though, you pressed the paper to your mouth and laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, because all you could think was: That’s how badly he wanted me. That’s how much he loves me.

—

When the day came, you waited in the room alone.

You had done the paperwork, gone through twenty locked doors to get here. You came knowing you had a couple of hours with your husband. And for the first time in three years, there would be no table between you, no visitor chair bolted too far from his. No guards close enough to hear every word. No one telling you not to lean too far across the table when all you wanted was to touch his face.

A couple of hours was not enough. 

You smoothed your hands over your blouse, then over your skirt, then clasped them together in your lap to make yourself stop fidgeting. You had dressed too carefully without really thinking about it. You had a white blouse, a nice skirt, because Dex liked seeing you in skirts. You were wearing the cardigan you were wearing when you met him.

You stared at your wedding ring until Dex stepped inside. For a second, neither of you moved.

He looked different. That was your first thought, blunt and stupid and immediate. He looked different, because of course he did. Years had happened. Prison had happened. Surgery had happened. His hair was shorter. His jaw looked sharper. But he was also bigger.

You noticed from your previous visits, of course, but seeing him a bit closer now, it was evident. His shoulders filled out the plain prison shirt. His arms looked stronger than they had in the hospital, muscle sitting heavy under institutional fabric, like all the recovery and physical therapy and whatever routines they let him have had made him sturdier.

You blinked before you could stop yourself. What were they feeding him?

Dex’s eyes found your face first, gaze locked onto you. For one fragile second he did not look like a prisoner at all.

He looked like Dex. Your Dex. Your husband, seeing you after being forced to miss you for too long.

“Hi,” you whispered.

His mouth parted slightly. When the door closed behind him, the lock turned, and whatever restraint he had used to walk in there like a normal person vanished.

You barely got to stand before his hands were on your face and yours were on his chest, and the first kiss was so clumsy it almost made you laugh. Your noses bumped. His mouth missed yours by half an inch and caught the corner instead. You made a tiny sound, half sob and half laugh, and Dex froze like he had done something wrong.

“No,” you said quickly, already smiling through the sting in your eyes. “No, come here.”

You took his face in both hands and kissed him properly, softly at first. Then again. And again.

These were little, ridiculous kisses. The kind you had imagined giving him in every prison visit where a guard stood too close. You kissed his mouth, the corner of it, his cheek. You kissed the line beside his nose, the skin under his eye, the edge of his mouth again.

Dex stood there and let you love him, as if he couldn’t believe you still did at all.

His hands stayed at your waist, almost uncertain, like after all this time he still didn’t fully trust that he was allowed to hold you without someone telling him to stop. But the longer you kissed him, the more his fingers settled. The more his body leaned into yours. The more the tension in his shoulders slowly started to melt.

“I missed you,” you said between kisses.

Dex’s eyes closed. “I missed you, too.”

“I missed you so much.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You kissed his cheek again, because apparently now that you had started you couldn't stop. “I missed you in the kitchen. I missed you in our bed. I missed you when I had to fix the shelf myself because you would have been so annoying about doing it better.”

His mouth twitched. “You fixed a shelf?” he asked.

“I tried to.”

His eyes opened with attentive focus you had missed so badly. “What happened?”

“It’s currently leaning.”

Dex stared at you, then he laughed. It wasn’t loudly, or freely. It was small, rough, and almost startled, like his body had forgotten how to make the sound and needed you to remind it. 

You broke a little. “Oh,” you whispered, smiling like an idiot. “There you are.”

His expression changed before he leaned in and kissed you again, not clumsy this time. A kiss that said yes, here, I’m here, I came back up when you called.

His arms moved around you properly then, and fuck, he was solid.

You had expected him to feel fragile, because part of you still remembered the hospital bed, the shackles, the bruised skin around his wrists after surgery. But this Dex was heavy and strong under your hands. When your palms slid over his shoulders, you felt muscle there making your stomach drop and go hot at the same time.

Still, he stayed sweet for a little while.

You had both expected the hunger. But before that, there was Dex touching your hair like he had thought about the texture of it more than once. There was you smoothing your thumb over his cheekbone, relearning him up close. There was him pressing his face into the side of your neck and breathing in once like he had been living on memory for years and memory had never been enough.

“I missed how you smell,” he said, voice muffled against your skin.

You laughed. “That’s creepy,” you said, but smiled into his hair anyway.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, then lower, over the ridge of his shoulder. You felt him shiver when your touch found the edge of the scar beneath his shirt. You paused, but he shook his head against you. “It’s okay.”

So you kept touching him gently. Through the fabric first, then at the collar where your fingers could slip just beneath. The scar was there, and Dex’s breathing changed when you traced it. Not with pain, exactly. It felt more… intimate.

“My baby,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

His hand flexed at your hip. This time, when his mouth opened under yours, the sweetness warmed.His body crowded yours a little more. His hands moved from your waist to your back, then down again.

“You got…” You swallowed, then laughed softly because there was no graceful way to say it. “You got big.”

Dex blinked. For half a second, he looked genuinely confused. Then his eyes dropped to where your hands were spread over his chest. “Big?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I had physical therapy.”

“That is a criminal understatement.”

His mouth twitched again as you dragged your palms over his shoulders, shameless now, because you had earned this. You had earned the right to be stupid about your husband’s arms after three years of prison visits and legal calls and sleeping alone.

“You’re very…” You squeezed his bicep lightly. “Recovered.”

Dex looked at you. “You’re flirting with me.”

You shrugged, but didn’t deny it.

The sound he made was almost an arrogant chuckle.

He kissed you again, and this time there was no mistaking the heat under it. Then, his hands settled on your blouse.

Not grabbing yet, but touching the fabric at your waist, thumbs moving slowly over the buttons as if he had only just realised there was something between his hands and your skin.

You were still smiling when his eyes dropped.

Suddenly, his eyes were fixed on the small gap where one button had loosened, where the fabric had shifted just enough to reveal a flash of black lace underneath.

Dex recognised it at the same time you remembered. “Is that…”

Your face burned hot as you nodded.

It was the black teddy he had bought you for your first wedding anniversary.It was sheer lace at the cups, delicate straps, a low satin-trimmed neckline. Dex remembered the first time you tried it on. You stood at the foot of your bed, pretending not to be shy, while he sat there ruined, looking at you like his brain had briefly stopped receiving oxygen. And now, you had worn it here.

Dex’s thumb brushed the edge of your blouse, right where black lace disappeared beneath it. His eyes darkened. “You wore my anniversary gift under your blouse,” he said.

Your stomach flipped. “When you say it like that—”

“How should I say it?” He demanded, and it was a little mean. But that always did turn you on.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Less like you’re about to lose your mind.”

Dex looked back up at you, too focused, too hungry. “I am.”

Oh.

Your hands tightened in his shirt.

The room felt smaller after that, less like a prison facility and more like the bedroom he remembered, the one with your knees pressed into the mattress and his hands shaking at your waist because he hadn’t known a piece of lace could make wanting feel that violent.

His grip settled firmer on your hips. “You have no idea,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “What you do to me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. There he was. Your husband, touch-starved, breathing against your neck like he had waited years to find out if he could still make you tremble.

You smiled, kind and doomed all the same. “Show me.”

Oh, he had a list.

Dex was undressed before you could blink, all broad shoulders and blown pupils, moving with a focused urgency that made the sterile little room feel suddenly too small to hold him. The white walls, the bolted table, the narrow bed, the chemical-clean smell of the sheets, and none of it stood a chance against the way he looked at you.

He had been counting down to this for years. Every prison visit, every supervised touch, every night alone in a cell had led into this exact moment.

His hands were already on your blouse, quick but not careless, tearing through buttons, ripping them off with a precision that would have been funny if his breathing had not been so rough. The black teddy appeared inch by inch beneath the fabric, lace and satin and memory, and Dex looked ruined. 

First on the list: his mouth between your legs.

You understood that the second he dropped to his knees. Dex had barely gotten the teddy off before his hands were already under your skirt, gripping your thighs.

Then his mouth was on you, and every thought in your head broke apart.

“Oh,” you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other twisting in the clean white sheet beneath you.

Dex made a sound against you that was almost a groan, almost a laugh. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go. He was not gentle, like he used to be. He was focused, hungry, and touch-starved enough that every reaction you gave him seemed to make him worse.

“Fuck,” he breathed against you, voice rough and ruined. “You taste so fucking sweet.”

Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”

He didn’t let you finish. His mouth returned to you, and the room became nothing but the wet heat of him, the harsh sound of his breathing, the narrow bed creaking under the way your hips moved despite yourself. The sterile little room had no right to hold something this filthy. 

He was still so good, it was unfair.

Dex had always been terrifying when he focused. When he learned something, he learned it completely. And you realised, breathless and shaking, that he remembered everything. Every place that made you gasp. Every rhythm that made your hand tighten in his hair. Every tiny, helpless sound you tried to swallow and failed.

You tried to move back once, overwhelmed, but his hands slid under you and dragged you closer with a low, possessive sound that made your stomach twist.

“No,” he murmured. “Stay.”

So you stayed while he buried himself there like he could spend hours between your thighs if time were not an issue. You stayed while his fingers dug into your skin, while his mouth made you forget the guards outside, the transfer, the years, the ugly world that had kept him from you. You stayed while he took you apart with the kind of devotion that felt less like softness and more like obsession given a mouth.

At some point, you said his name too loudly, and Dex groaned like that was the point.

Of course he wanted them to hear. Of course he wanted the men outside that locked door to know that whatever they thought they had taken from him was still his. You were still his. 

When you finally broke, Dex did not stop right away.

He held you through it palms spread over your thighs, breathing you in like the end of the world had tasted sweet and he couldn’t make himself pull away.

Only when you tugged weakly at his hair did he lift his head.

Dex looked up at you like he had just crossed the first thing off a list and still had every intention of finishing the rest.

Number two on the list should have been obvious when he suddenly looked shy. 

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

Your breath was still uneven. “Dex.”

His mouth pressed briefly to the inside of your knee, like he needed one more second to gather himself. “I want your mouth.”

Oh.

Your stomach flipped so hard you almost laughed. Who were you to deny this man anything? 

You slid off the bed and onto your knees in front of him, and Dex went very still.

His hand came to your cheek, careful at first, thumb brushing your skin like he needed to touch you gently before letting himself want. His breathing changed when you looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide enough to make him look almost feverish.

“Baby,” he said, voice rough.

You smiled before giving him what he asked for.

Dex’s hand stayed in your hair, not forcing, not taking. His head tipped back. His throat worked. His eyes squeezed shut and opened again because he seemed to hate missing even one second of you.

He was big in every way you remembered and worse because you had missed him.

Too much, almost. Overwhelming enough to make your eyes water, enough to make your hands press at his thighs when you needed a second, and Dex stopped immediately each time.

His hand softened in your hair. “Too much?” he rasped.

You shook your head, breathless, stubborn, and a little ruined yourself.

Dex looked like that might kill him. Then you kept going, and he fell apart beautifully.

He moaned your name like a warning, like a plea. His hand stayed on your cheek against your cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness at the corner of your eye with such tenderness that the gesture felt obscene in context.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You felt him getting close, and you wanted nothing more than feeling him down your throat, but he pulled back, stopping himself so abruptly you almost protested.

Dex stared down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild, mouth parted like he had just survived something.

You blinked up at him.

He gave a rough little laugh, almost pained. “No,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

You smiled slowly. “Not yet?”

His gaze darkened again. He reached down, thumb brushing your lower lip, still shaking from the effort of denying himself.

“I have two more things on the list,” he reminded you, making your thighs pressed together.

Dex helped you back onto your feet with hands that weren’t quite steady, then kissed you so deeply you tasted the restraint he had forced himself to keep.

“Bed,” he murmured against your mouth.

Number three on the list was taking you from behind, of course. 

He turned you toward the bed with hands that were still shaking his mouth at your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear. 

He moved slowly at first, because even like this, rough and ruined and half-mad with missing you, Dex was still Dex. He still listened to every breath, every shift of your body, every little sound that told him whether you were overwhelmed or wanting more. The stretch of him made your hands fist in the sheet, your body tensing around the sheer shock of having him again after so long without. His mouth pressed to your shoulder. “Breathe,” he rasped. “I’ve got you.”

He took his time even though you could feel restraint burning through him. The way he cursed softly against your skin when you finally relaxed into him, when your body remembered him properly and pulled him closer.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice breaking. “You’re so—”

He cut himself off with his mouth against your shoulder, like the words were too much, like saying them would make him less controlled than he already was.

Then he started moving. God, he hadn’t forgotten you, so of course you were loud almost immediately.

The first sound broke out of you before you could stop it, your whole face burning. Dex’s hand tightened at your hip, and the next lewd mewl came worse. He made a low sound behind you, smug and satisfied in a way that made heat crawl up your spine.

You bit down on your own wrist, trying to muffle yourself.

His hand slid up your body and gently pulled your arm away. “No,” he said, voice rough. “I waited three years to hear you.”

Your whole body went hot. “Dex—”

“Let me hear you.”

And then he made sure you did.

He got rougher, hungrier. His body covered yours, his mouth dragging over your neck while his hands held you exactly where he wanted you. The bed creaked under you. The sheet twisted beneath your fists. Your voice filled the room because he kept pulling it out of you, again and again.

At some point, there was a knock on the door, but unfortunately Dex didn’t have enough self control to stop.

You looked over your shoulder, cheek pressed flush into the sheets.

The little window opened and a guard looked in. They were worried, you realised. You had been so fucking loud.

The humiliation should have swallowed you whole. Instead, your stomach flipped.

“You okay?” the guard called. 

You could barely speak. “Hmmph, Y-yes!” you managed.

Dex’s hand slid over your stomach, keeping you pressed back against him.

The guard moved away when he realised what he was seeing, face red.

The second the shadow disappeared, Dex’s mouth was at your ear. “You liked that.”

You shivered.

“You liked him checking,” he murmured, darker now. “Liked him hearing what I do to you.”

You should have denied it, but you could not bring yourself to lie, Dex made a rough, broken sound against your neck and moved again, deeper into the heat, rougher now because he was jealous, because some stranger had seen even a glimpse of your face like that and Dex couldn’t stand it. He kissed your shoulder hard and held you like he could erase the guard’s eyes from the room by making you forget anything existed except him.

“Mine,” he breathed. 

You answered with his name, exactly how he wanted it.

Number four on the list started with him denying you an orgasm.

That was how you knew prison had changed him.The old Dex, the one who melted when you praised him, the one who went doe-eyed and obedient under your hands, had been buried under three of whatever this was.

Dex flipped you over before you could come undone.

Your gasp broke against his mouth as your back hit the narrow mattress, the white sheet twisted beneath you, your body sore in the best, most aching way. You were already too close and he knew it. Of course he knew it. He knew your body like he had studied it for a test he refused to fail.

“Not yet,” he murmured.

You made a helpless little sound, half protest, half plea. Dex’s hand slid up your waist, and he was inside you again in no time. 

Oh. you realised, he wanted to look at you when you came. That was all. So sweet. So cute. 

But then you felt him twitch, and you realised that he was close before he did. Or maybe he knew, and he was just too far gone to care about anything else.

“Dex—” Your voice caught. “Dex, I’m not— fuck, I’m not on birth control.”

He didn’t stop completely. His whole body stuttered above yours, rhythm faltering, breath punching out of him like you had hit him in the chest.

“Hmph—fuck.” His forehead dropped against yours. “I know.”

Your eyes snapped open. “You know?”

His hand slid over your stomach, possessive, and the sound that left him was almost pained.

“I know,” he said again, rougher. “I know, baby.”

The words should have sobered you, but you loved him, and you loved that he was still above you, still shaking, still so close you could feel every tremor of restraint tearing through him.

“Dex,” you gasped.

“I thought about it,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Every night.”

Your body went hot. His hand pressed a little firmer over your stomach, not forcing, just holding there like the thought had been living in him for years.

“You in our apartment,” he murmured, words breaking between breathless little sounds. “My wife, wearing my old shirts. Sleeping alone. Fighting for me. Sitting across from lawyers and doctors while I sit in a– hmmphh— a fuckin’ box.”

“Baby—”

“And all I could think was… fuck—all I could think was I should have left you something.”

Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt.

A baby, he meant.

A living tether. Something that would tie you to him in a way no prison door, no court order, no transfer file could undo. And sure, if you were going to leave him, you would have done it already. No court in the world would blame you for divorcing a killer. No friend, no family member, no sane person would call you cruel for walking away.

But you stayed. And fuck, somehow, staying was still not enough for Dex. He needed proof that some part of him could still belong to you permanently. 

In his mind, twisted and tender as it was, this was not a trap. It was a gift.

His eyes locked on yours, blown dark and terrifyingly attentive even through the haze.

His mouth was against yours, then your jaw, then your throat, never settling anywhere long enough to be gentle. He kept touching you like he could not decide what he needed more: your face, your waist, your hips, the heat of your body. 

“You feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked as you squeezed him a little. “How bad you want it?”

You did want it, but you could barely answer. Every breath came out wrong, caught somewhere between a moan and his name. Your thoughts had gone useless, scattered apart by the obscene tenderness of his palm resting low and possessive like he was already imagining the seed taking root there.

“Dex—” you sighed, trying to bury your face in his ned

“No, baby.” His mouth brushed your ear, rough and hot, as he pulled your hair back gently to look into your eyes. “Don’t get… shit— shy now. Not after that. N-not after the sounds you’ve been making ‘f me.”

Your face burned, but your hands only tightened on him.

His voice dropped lower, filthier, the words breaking between harsh breaths. “My pretty girl wants something from me, huh?”

Your whole body went hot.

Dex’s palm pressed a little firmer over your stomach. “S-she wants me to leave her with something.” His breath hitched, and for a second his voice almost failed him. “Wants to walk out of here carrying more than m-my… hmm— fingerprints.”

You made a helpless sound.

“There it is,” he murmured. “You like that, fuck! You like thinking about it.”

“Dex-please—”

“Yeah?” His mouth found yours, messy and desperate, before he pulled back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his face flushed, his control hanging by a thread he was clearly ready to let snap. “My pretty girl wants my baby, huh?”

Your breath caught so hard it hurt.

Dex saw it the way your body answered before your mouth could.

His face changed, hunger folding into something sickly sweet, almost tender in the worst possible way. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You do.”

Your eyes stung.

You hated and loved how well he knew you all the same.

“Wants something of mine when they t-take me back,” he breathed, mouth dragging along your cheek. “Something they c-can’t put in a cell. Something that— hnghhh — still has me in it.”

You were shaking now, overwhelmed and aching and so far gone that language felt like a thing happening on another planet. Dex was talking to you like he knew exactly where every dark little want lived under your skin, like he had spent three years locked away with nothing but the memory of you and all the ways he wanted to make himself permanent.

“Say it,” he murmured.

You couldn’t, not properly. Dex’s eyes darkened further.

“C-can’t even talk,” he whispered. “That’s okay. I know you.” His thumb moved slowly over your skin. “I know what my wife wants.”

Your breath broke.

His forehead pressed to yours, and for one second, under all that hunger, he was shaking with the effort to hold himself back.

“But you gotta tell me,” he said, voice raw. “Tell me no and I’ll stop.”

The restraint from him was phenomenal. Your hands slid up to his face, holding him there, forcing him to look at you while you gave him the answer.

“D-don’t you fucking dare stop,” you whispered.

“Yeah?” he asked, like he needed it again, like one yes was not enough to survive on.

“Yes–Fuck! Yes, baby.”

His mouth crashed back to yours, swallowing the rest of your answer, and the room disappeared into heat and the terrible intimacy of choosing this with him. His hand stayed over your stomach the whole time, almost reverent, like the fantasy had become real the second you let him have it.

He kept talking against your mouth, the words coming apart as badly as he was.

How good you were. How much he had missed you. How he had thought about you every night. How he wanted to leave something behind. How you would be going home with him in a way no guard could take from you.

You clung to him through it, nails catching on his shoulders, then his back, then the scar along his spine. Dex shuddered when you touched it, a broken sound leaving him before he buried his face against your neck and held you closer, closer, closer, like he could press three lost years into the space between your bodies and make them disappear.

When he finally came with you, he did it with your name on his mouth and his eyes fixed on yours, like he needed you to see every second of what he was giving you.

His forehead dropped to yours afterward, both of you breathing too hard.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The guards outside were silent. The room was wrecked in small damning ways: twisted sheets, scattered clothes, your blouse half on the floor, the black lace halfway off the bed.  

Dex kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.“I missed you,” he whispered, and this time it sounded almost broken.

You closed your eyes and held him there. “I missed you, too.”

—

The knock came fifteen minutes later, and you hated it. “Poindexter,” a guard called, “Time.”

Dex was still against you, face buried in your neck, one arm locked around your waist like pretending not to hear it might make the door stay shut. For a second, neither of you moved. His breathing was still uneven against your skin, and your fingers were still in his hair, and the narrow bed beneath you looked absolutely ruined.

Another knock. You touched the back of his neck. “Baby.”

“I know.”

He didn’t sound like he knew. He sounded like leaving you there might kill him.

You both moved in a rush after that, half-dressed and breathless, trying to put yourselves back together before the guards came in. The sheet was twisted. Your skirt was crooked. Your blouse was missing buttons because Dex had been too impatient, so you had to clutch the fabric closed with both hands while smiling like an idiot anyway.

Then the guards stepped in. One of them looked at the bed, then at you, then at Dex. His face went carefully blank.

“Hands,” he said.

You stepped forward before Dex could turn around.

The guard sighed. “Ma’am—”

“One second,” you said.

Dex bent instantly, like he had been waiting for permission. You kissed him once. Then again. Then to his nose, because one kiss was not enough and never would be.

“I love you,” you whispered.

He looked like he might cry. “I love you, too”

Then they cuffed him.

You hated the sound of metal around his wrists. It meant the world taking him back. At the door, Dex looked over his shoulder, and you stood there still holding your blouse together, still smiling, still ruined.

The guard muttered, “Filthy animals,” as they disappeared into the hall.

Then you heard Dex chuckle, low and rough and proud. Like being filthy with you was the best thing anyone had ever called him.

You stood there for a second, and then you laughed under your breath, too.

Because you loved it. You loved being disgusting with him. Loved that the room looked wrecked. Loved that the guards knew. Loved that Dex would carry that insult back to his cell like a compliment, and that you would go home with the same stupid, shameless pride in your chest.

Filthy animals.

Yeah. You smiled to yourself, still holding your blouse together. Maybe you were.

—

You were pregnant.

You found out before the transfer, while Dex was still in prison, still waiting to be moved to the secure psychiatric facility you had spent three years fighting for. For three days, you carried the secret around yourself like a forcefield. You went to work, answered emails, helped patrons at the public library. You smiled politely at everyone while your whole body felt like it had become a locked room with a miracle inside.

When you told Dex, he knew something was different before you even sat down. His eyes went to your face, then your hands, then the way you kept pressing your palm nervously against your stomach. “What happened?”

You laughed once, shaky and soft. “Nothing bad.”

Dex didn’t relax, so you reached across the table and took his hand as much as the cuffs allowed. His fingers closed around yours immediately. “I’m pregnant.” For a second, it was like the whole visiting room lost sound. Then his eyes dropped to your stomach. “What?”

You smiled through the tears already coming. “I’m pregnant, baby.”

The chair scraped back before the guard could stop him.

Dex moved toward you on instinct, cuffed hands reaching for your face, not violent, not thinking, just desperate to touch. The chain between his wrists caught on the edge of the table, but he barely seemed to feel it. His palms found your cheeks, and then he was kissing you across the table like the whole room had disappeared.

“Poindexter,” the guard snapped.

Dex didn't hear him. Or he did, and for one dangerous second, he didn’t care.

You kissed him back, crying into his mouth, fingers gripping the front of his prison shirt because this was your husband, your baby’s father, and he was making this broken sound against your lips.

Another guard came over. “Back. Now.”

They had to pull you apart. Actually pull you apart.

They had one hand on Dex’s shoulder, another on his arm, dragging him back while his cuffed hands strained toward you and yours reached for him across the table. His eyes stayed locked on your face the whole time amazed and almost frightened by the size of what he felt.

The transfer happened not long after.

The institution was better than solitary. You reminded yourself of that every day. He had doctors now. Treatments, structure. He was not locked alone in a box anymore.

But he still was not free. He wasn’t there when your stomach first started to show, but the institution had better visitation rules than the prison, and the first time you came in visibly pregnant, Dex was allowed to touch you. His hand settled over the curve of your stomach so carefully it made your throat ache, like he was afraid the smallest wrong movement might cost him the privilege.

He wasn’t there when the baby kicked for the first time either, but later, during one of those visits, the baby kicked beneath Dex’s palm. Dex went completely still, eyes dropping to your stomach.

Still, he wasn’t there for the smaller, lonelier things. He wasn’t beside you in the maternity shop when you cried because nothing fit right and you wanted him there so badly it hurt. He should have been there making some too-serious comment about proper shoes, back support, and whether the changing room bench was structurally safe enough for you to sit on.

But even then, you told him everything. Every appointment. Every craving. Every scan. Every tiny development you could turn into words and carry to him.

Then Leonard was born. Leo, for short, named for his father.

Dex wasn’t allowed to be there.

That hurt him in a way he didn’t know how to hide. You didn’t know this, but one of the nurses told you he had become erratic after the call came through that you were in labour. Not violent, but frantic, pacing, asking the same questions over and over, trying to negotiate with people who had no authority to give him what he wanted. By the end of it, they had to force a couple pills down his throat so he could just calm down.

So when you finally called, exhausted and crying, with your son against your chest, the silence on the other end felt too careful.

“He’s here,” you whispered. “He’s here, baby.”

Dex didn’t answer right away. For a moment, all you could hear was his breathing, thin and controlled, like he was holding himself together by force. Then, very carefully, he asked, "Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes.”

You could almost picture him sitting there, hand curled too tightly around the phone, trying to make himself calm enough to deserve hearing this.

“Tell me,” he said.

You told him Leo had blonde hair. You looked down at the baby curled against you, tiny and furious, with pale hair against his head and features that already made your chest ache because there was no denying whose child he was.

“He looks like you,” you whispered.

Dex didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice sounded stripped bare.

“He does?”

“Yeah, baby.” You smiled through tears, touching Leo’s tiny cheek. “He looks like his father.”

Still, after weeks, then months, then years of hearing about Leo through you, Dex began to know him in fragments.

Children were not allowed inside the institution, so Leo had never met his father. Dex knew him through the stories you told him in visitation rooms, through the photographs you were allowed to bring, through the change in your voice whenever you said his name. You gave him a picture of Leo asleep with one fist tucked under his cheek. Leo with blond hair and your eyes. Leo scowling at the camera in a way that looked so much like Dex it made him go silent the first time he saw it.

But he didn’t love Leo properly yet. How could he? He had never held him. Never felt the weight of him against his chest. Never smelled his skin, never rocked him through a cry, never watched him fall asleep in his arms. Leo was still partly an idea to him, a child made real through your love before Dex could reach him with his own.

But he loved Leo, in a way, because you loved him.

That was easier. You loved that baby, so Leo mattered. Your face relaxed when you spoke about him, so Dex learned to relax around the sound of his name too. And somewhere in the darkest, neediest part of him, he thought he owed Leo his life because he made you stay.

Leo was Dex’s gift to you, because he didn’t want you to be alone. 

So Dex loved Leo in the only way he knew how at first: because Leo was yours, because Leo was his, because Leo looked like him, and because Leo kept a piece of him in your life while the rest of him was locked away. He loved him for your sake, before he knew how to love him for his own.

—

Leo was three years old when Vanessa Fisk made Dex kill Foggy Nelson.

He was three, serious-eyed, stubborn in the exact way that made your mother sigh and say, “That’s probably his father,” under her breath. Leo had Dex’s watchful stare, Dex’s unnerving ability to go quiet when he was thinking too hard. But he was still a toddler, so the quiet never lasted long. One minute he would be silently studying the wheels of a toy truck like he was investigating a crime scene, and the next he would be shrieking because his banana had “broken wrong.”

He loved dinosaurs, but only “scary ones.” He refused to wear socks that had seams in the wrong place. He called the moon “the night light” and cried once because you explained he couldn’t take it home. He had Dex’s face in miniature and your habit of talking to himself while concentrating, which meant you spent most mornings watching your tiny blond child line up toy animals on the floor and whisper, “No, no, you go there. No, you not listening.”

You were a good mother. You packed snacks. You remembered nursery forms. You cut grapes in half. You kept emergency wipes in every bag you owned. You sang the same bedtime song three times if Leo asked, even when your throat hurt and your body felt hollow from work and worry and loving a man the world had never stopped punishing.

Dex knew all of that through you. Leo liked peas this week. Leo hated peas this week. Leo asked why cats had no eyebrows. Leo threw a shoe at the wall because bedtime was, apparently, “a bad idea.” Leo had asked about Daddy again.

You and Leo had become the one fragile architecture that kept Dex going. Vanessa understood that because Vanessa Fisk understood devotion, even when it was ugly. 

So when she found out about you and Leo, it was over.

She came to Dex with ammo in her metaphorical gun.

This was no way to live, she told him, taking away the meds. Was this what he wanted? To hear about his son in secondhand stories? To let you raise a child alone while other men opened doors for you, helped carry groceries, taught Leo to kick a ball, to ride a bike, to be brave? Raising a child was hard, wasn’t it? You were young. Lonely. Exhausted. Beautiful. How long before someone else started looking less like help and more like a replacement?

Didn’t he want to be a husband? A father? Didn’t he want to come home?

Then, she gave him a photo of you at home, hair tied back, Leo on your hip. How… did she get this photo?

Then she gave him structure: Kill Foggy first. Then he could go to you and Leo.

That was the order of how it went. It was a task, a reward, a way back to the only life he still cared about. And Dex had always been most dangerous when someone took his pain and turned it into a sequence.

So he killed Foggy Nelson. And afterward, when they dragged him back into court, you wanted to see him.

Not because you excused murder. Not because Foggy didn’t matter. But because you were his wife, and you knew that Dex didn’t kill like that out of nowhere.

He wouldn’t simply go on a rampage. He didn’t wake up one day and decide he would burn every bridge that led to you. He loved you too much for that. So you came to the conclusion that someone must've reached into the most frightened part of him, and aimed him again.

You knew that, but the court didn’t care. This time, the court issued an order. It was for your son’s sake, they said. An injunction, no contact. You and Leo were not to be in the same room as Benjamin Poindexter. Not in court, not in visitation, not anywhere a judge could prevent it.

You stood very still when they told you this.

Leo was at home with your mother, probably refusing lunch because the sandwich had been cut into triangles instead of squares.

You didn’t cry. Not when the injunction was read. Not even when Dex was sentenced for the second time. You just listened. Then you got to work.

Because crying would come later, probably in the shower, probably with one hand over your mouth so Leo wouldn’t hear. But right then, there were lawyers to call, motions to file, and records to request. You knew your husband. You knew what manipulation looked like when he was the one pointed like a weapon.

And after court, you went back to Leo. He was sitting on the living room floor in dinosaur pyjamas even though it was the afternoon, blond hair sticking up at the back, one sock on and one sock missing for reasons nobody could explain. He looked up when you came in, toy stegosaurus clutched in one hand.

“Mama,” he said seriously, “Nana said no more crackers.”

You knelt in front of him, your knees cracking with the exhaustion of the day. “Your grandma is probably right.”

Leo frowned like you had betrayed him on a legal level. “I need snacks.”

“You had a snack.”

“I need more snacks.”

“You need dinner.”

He considered that, then lifted the stegosaurus. “Dino needs crackers.”

“Dino can have pretend crackers.”

Leo stared at you with Dex’s eyes. For one awful second, you almost laughed and almost cried at the same time. Instead, you reached out and smoothed his hair down. It sprang back up immediately.

“Daddy has that face too,” you whispered.

Leo blinked. “Daddy?”

You had never lied to him. You told him Daddy was away. Daddy loved him. Daddy couldn’t come home yet. All true, and yet, none of it was enough.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Daddy.”

Leo looked down at his dinosaur, then back at you. “Daddy like dinos?”

You smiled even though your throat hurt. “I think Daddy would like whatever you like.”

Leo nodded, satisfied by that, and shoved the stegosaurus into your lap. “Then Daddy like this one. He bite.”

You held the toy carefully, like it was evidence. “Yeah,” you whispered. “He bite.”

Leo climbed into your lap after that, all knees and elbows, and you wrapped both arms around him. He smelled like shampoo and the strawberry yoghurt he had somehow gotten on his sleeve. He pressed his face into your shoulder for exactly four seconds before wriggling away again because three-year-olds loved affection on their own schedule.

You let him go. You watched him return to his line of dinosaurs, babbling to himself, head bent in concentration.

You opened your notes app and started another list: Lawyer. Injunction appeal. Facility records. Contact restrictions. Dex’s medication logs. Visitor records.

You could be heartbroken later. Right now, you were Leo’s mother. Dex’s wife. And someone had used your family to turn your husband into a weapon again.

And you were going to find out why.

—

A year later, you were watching the news while Leo played on the carpet.

Not watching, really. You were letting it sit on in the background while you moved through the living room with half your attention split into a dozen places at once. Leo’s sippy cup was on the coffee table. His toy dinosaurs were arranged in a careful little line near your foot. A postcard Johnathan had sent from the Bahamas with his boyfriend on the fridge. There was a basket of laundry on the chair you had been meaning to fold since yesterday, and your laptop sat open on the sofa beside you, full of documents, court filings, old visitor logs, psychiatric reports, and all the research you had been collecting like ammunition.

You had been working for weeks. You had names, dates, transfer notices, facility records, connections that were too neat to be coincidence. You had followed the clues until your stomach turned. Dex was going to be moved into general population, and it was not an administrative error. It was not random. It had the Fisks’ fingerprints all over it, even if she was careful enough never to leave them where a normal person could see.

After all, it hadn’t taken you long to find out about the Red Hook charter. That part had been almost laughably easy. Child’s play, really.

The public library had a stack of old municipal records tucked away in the back, half-forgotten beneath outdated notices and donation forms. Someone had slapped a label on the box years ago — NEEDS TO BE SHREDDED — and then, by some miracle of underfunded bureaucracy, no one ever had.

So you had done the one thing you could think of and sent Matt Murdock an anonymous tip. You didn't give a signature or explanation. It was just enough information to make him look where he needed to look. It was just enough to prove to him that Dex was not acting on his own.

Matt went to see him that morning. You knew because you still had someone inside the prison willing to tell you what the official channels never would. A friend, barely. A contact, more accurately. 

Then, that night, the news broke: Benjamin Poindexter had escaped from prison and attempted to assassinate the mayor.

Your husband’s name was on every channel again. Your husband’s face was dragged back into the world as a threat, a headline, a monster with a body count and no context anyone cared to say out loud.

You stood frozen in the middle of your living room, remote in hand, while the news anchor spoke over footage you could barely process. On the carpet, Leo lifted his plastic stegosaurus and made it bite the sofa cushion.

“Rawr,” he said seriously.

You looked down at him and how completely unaware he was that his father had just broken out of prison and tried to kill a man.

Leo was too busy frowning at the stegosaurus with Dex’s whole face in miniature, pale brows pulled together, mouth pressed into a stern little line. “No,” he told the dinosaur, pushing its plastic nose away from the triceratops. “No bully.”

The stegosaurus apparently disagreed, because Leo made it chomp again. Then he gasped, offended by his own storyline. “No. Bully bad.” He picked up the stegosaurus, turned it toward the triceratops, and shook it gently. “You say sorry.”

You stared at him.

Leo bumped the stegosaurus’s head carefully against the triceratops. “Sowwy,” he said in a deeper voice.

Then he made the triceratops pat the stegosaurus on the head. “Okay. Be kind now.”

Your chest tightened so hard you had to sit down.

Leo looked up. “Mama?”

“I’m okay,” you said too quickly.

He stared at you with Dex’s eyes, unconvinced.

You turned the volume down, but not off. You couldn’t make yourself turn it off. You sat there with Leo at your feet and the whole city falling apart on-screen, trying to understand the sequence. Matt’s visit. The transfer. The Fisks. Dex escaping. The mayor. None of it random. None of it was out of nowhere, and you probably were the one to set this into motion the second you gave the anonymous tip.

“Mama,” Leo said again, holding up a toy. “Dino hungry.”

“Dino is always hungry,” you whispered.

“Need snack.”

“Okay,” you said, because your voice was already too close to breaking and arguing with a four-year-old about a plastic dinosaur felt like the one thing you could actually survive. “Let me check what we have.”

You stood and crossed into the kitchen, still listening to the news. The fridge light came on cold and white across your face. You stared into it without really seeing anything: half a punnet of strawberries, Leo’s yoghurt, and Leftover pasta. A little container of cut grapes.

The news anchor said Dex’s name again. Your hand tightened around the fridge door.

You reached for Leo’s yoghurt, then stopped because he had asked for a snack for the dinosaur, not himself, and for one absurd second that distinction mattered enough to make you laugh under your breath.

Then you realised that Leo was… silent. He wasn’t babbling. He wasn’t talking to his toys. Is he okay?

Worried, you looked back into the living room.

Leo was standing in the middle of the carpet, one dinosaur clutched in his hand, his small body frozen in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

He was waving at the window.

No. Not the window. The fire escape.

Beyond the glass, half-hidden in the dark metal lines of the fire escape, was his father.

Oh.

Little did you know, Dex had already been there for fifteen minutes.

Fifteen whole minutes of being half-hidden in the dark, one hand braced against the cold metal railing while he looked into the life he had only known through your stories. At first, he watched you, moving through the living room with the television flickering against your face, beautiful and alive, one hand absently touching your wedding ring while you tried to hold the world together through the sheer refusal to give up on him.

But when his eyes found Leo, Dex forgot how to breathe.

He knew what his son looked like from photographs. He knew he had blond hair, serious eyes, and that little frown you always said was his. But seeing Leo in person was different. It was jarring, how much he actually looked like him. Leo was now a real person to Dex, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in dinosaur pyjamas, scolding a plastic stegosaurus for biting another toy.

Dex watched Leo make the dinosaur apologise. He watched Leo say that bullying was bad. He watched his son choose kindness with no one guiding him toward it.

Oh. Leo looked like him, but he was good in a way Dex had never been able to be without help. Dex had always needed a North Star, someone outside him to point toward right when his own internal compass spun uselessly in the dark. He would always need you that way, always look to you when the world blurred at the edges and everything started to feel lost.

But Leo did not need a North Star. Leo had one inside him. Leo had a functioning moral compass in a tiny body with Dex’s face and your kindness. Dex’s focus, but not his emptiness. Dex’s intensity, but not his fracture. Dex, if someone had loved him correctly from the start.

And that was when Dex understood that he loved him. And not in the distant, complicated love he had forced himself to. Not just because Leo was yours, or because Leo was his, or because Leo had kept you tethered to him while the rest of the world tried to take him away.

Now, he loved Leo because Leo was a good version of him. Because protecting Leo suddenly felt a lot like self-preservation. Like if Dex could keep this child safe, if he could make sure the world never reached into Leo and broke the compass before it had a chance to grow, then maybe some part of himself could be saved too.

Then Leo noticed him.

Dex saw the exact second it happened. Leo’s head turned, eyes lifting past the kitchen table, past the window, to the dark shape crouched on the fire escape.

For one breathless second, Dex couldn't move. He had been caught. Not by the police. Not by guards. Not by Daredevil. By a four-year-old boy. 

Leo didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. Of course not. He was your son, too. He was brave, like you. 

He only blinked, then lifted one small hand and waved.

Because Dex didn't want to scare him, because he did not know how fathers were supposed to wave at sons they had never held, Dex lifted his hand and waved back.

That was when you noticed.

And fuck, he couldn’t wait to be in your arms again.

The second you got the window open, Dex came through it, one hand catching the frame, the other already reaching for you. The sniper rifle was still strapped across his back, cold against the warmth of your apartment.

You barely had time to say his name before his hands were on you.

He pulled you into him so quickly your feet left the floor, spinning you half across the living room with a strength that startled a laugh out of you before it broke into a sob. His arms locked around your waist, your hands flew to his shoulders, and then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was clumsy in the way only grief and longing could be clumsy. He kissed you like every locked door, every court order, every year stolen from you both had narrowed into this one second.

He tasted like blood and rain. His lip was split. One of his teeth was missing. There were stitches along his forehead and dirt at the edge of his chin, but he was here. Your husband was in your living room with his body against yours and his hands on your back like he was trying to convince himself you were not another trick his mind played against him.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his mouth.

Dex made a broken sound and kissed you again. “I missed you.”

“No, baby,” you whispered, laughing and crying at the same time as you pressed kisses to his mouth, his cheek, the corner of his cheekbones, the scar you’ve yet to trace there. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

His forehead dropped to yours. For a second, he just held you there, eyes closed, breathing you in like he had forgotten the world. His fingers moved at your waist, not quite gripping, not quite letting go, that old helpless need in him trying so hard to be gentle and failing only because there was too much feeling in one body.

Then a small voice behind you said, “Mama?”

It went through him all at once, the way a person remembered fire after touching a flame. His hands stayed on you, but his whole body locked up, breath caught, eyes opening with a kind of fear you had never seen in him. 

Because no, Benjamin Poindexter had no defence against a four-year-old boy in dinosaur pyjamas.

Slowly, you turned in his arms to see Leo stood in the middle of the carpet with one sock missing and his stegosaurus tucked under one arm. His round little face was serious, sleepy, and curious. He looked much like Dex, it made your chest hurt, but he was smaller, untouched by every cruel thing that had made his father into a weapon.

“Mama,” Leo asked, pointing the dinosaur toward Dex, “who’s this?”

Dex’s breath hitched, you felt it under your palm.

For a moment, you couldn’t answer. You had imagined this introduction a hundred different ways over the years. Maybe in a supervised visitation room. Or through a phone call. Maybe one day in some future where paperwork finally gave way and Leo was old enough to understand more than he should have to. You had not imagined Dex standing in your apartment with a rifle on his back, blood at his mouth, wanted by half the city, looking down at his son like the universe had placed his missing pieces in a boy that looked like a mirror.

You swallowed.“Leo,” you said softly, voice shaking. “This is Daddy.”

Dex inhaled like the word had gone straight through him.

Leo blinked up at him. “Hi daddy,” he repeated, testing the shape of it.

Dex was still trying to keep himself held together with force and habit and whatever discipline had survived. But a foreign emotion moved across him as you felt your own eyes fill again.

“Hi, Leo,” he whispered. His voice was wrecked.

Leo studied him with the grave suspicion of a child encountering an adult who looked both interesting and badly assembled. His eyes moved over Dex’s face. Then his little brows pulled together.

“Your teeth is missing,” Leo said.

You made a small sound, half laugh, half sob.

Dex blinked at him. “What?”

Leo took one step closer, stegosaurus still tucked under his arm like backup. “Your teeth is missing. Are you okay?”

And that was what broke him.

Not the years he had lost. Not even the word Daddy, though that had nearly taken his knees out. It was the concern in his son’s voice, the immediate, unprompted softness. The way Leo saw something wrong and, instead of flinching from him, asked if he was okay.

Dex lowered himself slowly to one knee, as if sudden movement might shatter the moment.

The rifle shifted against his back, so violently out of place beside your son’s little bare foot on the carpet. Dex seemed to realise it too. His hand moved as if to take it off, then stopped, uncertain, afraid to do anything too fast with Leo so close.

“I’m okay,” Dex said carefully.

Leo looked unconvinced. “Mama has plasters.”

Dex looked up at you.Your hand went to your mouth, and you cried properly then, because Leo had no idea what he was offering. No idea that his father had come through the window carrying a weapon and a history no child should have to understand. No idea that asking about a missing tooth and suggesting a plaster was the kindest thing anyone had said to Dex all year.

Dex looked back at him, and saw a person. A tiny person with Dex’s hair and Dex’s nose and Dex’s mouth, but he was human, in the way he never was. He was kind.

Leo was everything Dex had wanted to be and never knew how. Leo was a good version of him.

For the first time in Dex’s life, he looked at someone smaller than him and thought, with stunned humility, that he might have something to learn.

From his son, his better self.

Leo tilted his head. “You want Dino?”

Dex looked at the stegosaurus like it was sacred.

Then he held out both hands, slowly, carefully, letting Leo decide.

Leo stepped closer and placed the dinosaur into his palms.

Dex took it as if it weighed more than the rifle on his back. As if this battered little plastic toy had more power to undo him than any weapon ever made.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Leo nodded, satisfied by the manners, then moved closer. His small hand lifted and patted Dex’s cheek, not quite where the scar was, gentle in the imprecise way of toddlers trying their best.

Dex’s eyes snapped to yours. There was panic there. Wonder. A silent, helpless question: What do I do?

You sank down beside them, one hand on Leo’s back, the other reaching for Dex’s face.  “You’re doing okay,” you whispered.

Leo patted him again, then leaned forward and, with the sudden trust only children could offer, pressed himself into Dex’s chest.

Dex stopped breathing. Then, slowly, so slowly it made your heart ache, his arms came around your son.

Leo fit against him like he had always belonged there, his same-colored hair tucked beneath Dex’s chin. Dex held him as if the whole room might punish him for wanting it too much, as if any wrong movement would prove he didn;t deserve this.

You watched his hand spread carefully over Leo’s back. The same hand that had hurt people. The same hand that had held weapons. That same hand that now shook from the effort of touching his son gently enough.

Leo looked up from Dex’s chest. “Are you cold?”

Dex swallowed. “A little.”

Leo considered that, then turned to you. “Mama, Daddy need blanket.”

You laughed through tears. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Maybe he does.”

Dex closed his eyes.

His face bent toward Leo’s hair, and for a second he didn’t quite kiss him, He only breathed there, close enough to smell the child he had made and never held. Shampoo. Crackers. Life. His son smelled like life.

When Dex opened his eyes again, they were wet. He looked at you over Leo’s head, and the room seemed to fold around the three of you. 

“I missed everything,” he whispered.

You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his shoulder, one hand covering his where it rested on Leo’s back. “You’re here now.”

It was not enough, you both knew that. It was nowhere near enough.

But Leo wriggled in Dex’s arms and said, “Daddy, Dino hungry,” with the complete seriousness of a child who had accepted this new adult into his world and immediately assigned him responsibilities.

Dex looked down at him. Then at the dinosaur. Then back at you, for instruction. You tilted your chin like, go on.

“What does Dino eat?” he managed.

Leo gasped, scandalised that his own father didn’t know. “Crackers.”

Dex looked at you, and you nodded, so he also nodded, “Okay.”

Dex knew now that he was meant to love Leo because Leo was his second chance in miniature. 

And Leo had no idea his father would burn the world to keep him safe. Because in the end, that's what makes him a good man, right?

—end.

Extra note : I keep getting distracted from my Dex x reader / ex!Bucky fic, but I promise it’s on its way. In the meantime, my immediate thought after writing this is a sequel where Reader and Dex finds out Leo has powers (is a mutant) and that’s why Dex starts killing anti-vigilante task force. Because he wants to protect his son. (No promises, but let me know if anyone’s interested!)

Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.

In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.

It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational. 

“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”

Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of  Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.

“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.

“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane.  “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”

No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.

“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”

“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”

Bucky wants to disobey.

He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.

It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.

Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.

“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”

“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”

His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.

“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”

“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.

He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”

“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.

“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.

The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.

A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.

“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”

If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.

For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.

“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.

“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”

Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.

“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”

“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”

“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.

“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.

Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.

The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…

“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.

As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”

Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.

What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.

Instinct commands him to reach for two things.

First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.

A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.

And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.

“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.

Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.

Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.

There, that’s what it is.

Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.

“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.

He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.

His right palm is growing sweaty.

“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”

“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.

“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”

As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.

You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.

“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.

“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”

Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.

“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.

Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.

“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.

“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”

“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”

“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.

Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.

“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”

Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.

Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.

In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.

“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”

“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”

His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”

The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.

“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”

Five weeks pass before the call arrives.

On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.

On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.

The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.

“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”

“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”

They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.

“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.

“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.

Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.

“And you’re being reckless!”

“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”

The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.

A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.

Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.

After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.

An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.

From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.

“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”

“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”

The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted. 

“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.

“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”

One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.

But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.

Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.

“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”

“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”

“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”

Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.

Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.

The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.

“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”

“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”

“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”

“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.

“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”

Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.

At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.

“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.

“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”

“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”

“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.

The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.

Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.

Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.

Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious  — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.

For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.

If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.

Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.

It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.

You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.

“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.

“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”

Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.

After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”

“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”

“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”

To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.

“Why?”

“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.

“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”

“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”

“Oh, so you notice things now?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.

There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.

“Like what? This is just my voice.”

“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”

“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”

It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.

Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?

A throat clears itself over the comms.

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.

There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.

“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”

“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”

The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.

The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.

The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.

“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.

“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”

“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”

A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”

“For once.”

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.

Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.

A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.

Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.

“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”

“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.

For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?

You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.

“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”

A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.

He doesn’t get to make a single wish.

All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.

With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.

“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”

“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.

“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.

“James.”

“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.

Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.

“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”

“Bucky!”

The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.

Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.

“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.

“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”

“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”

“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”

The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.

“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”

“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin. 

“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”

A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.

Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.

The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.

“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.

“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”

“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.

The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.

“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”

Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.

“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.

Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.

“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.

The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.

“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”

Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.

Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.

You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.

It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.

Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.

Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.

What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.

One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.

Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.

Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.

Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.

“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”

“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”

“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”

He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.

The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.

Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.

You weren’t supposed to get hurt.

“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.

“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”

“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”

An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.

“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”

You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.

“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”

“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”

“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”

There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.

“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”

A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.

“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.

“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”

The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.

A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”

“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”

Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.

Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.

You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.

“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.

The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.

But you like to play dirty.

A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.

Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.

“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”

A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline. 

“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”

His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.

Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.

“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”

The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.

“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”

Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.

Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.

That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.

“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”

Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.

You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.

“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.

“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”

The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.

“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.

Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.

“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”

The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.

No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.

“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”

When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.

Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.

Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.

You must be a dream.

“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.

And, oh, does he watch.

Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.

“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.

The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.

You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.

It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.

“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”

“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.

Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.

“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.

“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”

“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.

You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.

Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.

Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.

“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.

Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.

The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.

“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”

Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.

“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”

“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.

“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”

The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.

So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.

“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”

Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.

Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.

The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.

His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.

“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”

His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.

“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”

You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.

“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”

That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.

In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.

Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.

“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.

“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.

You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.

One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.

“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”

“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.

“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”

“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.

“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”

The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.

You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.

His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.

Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.

“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”

A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.

One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.

“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”

Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.

That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.

The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.

“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”

“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.

He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on. 

Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.

“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”

He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”

“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”

“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”

He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.

You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.

Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.

One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.

“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”

“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.

He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.

“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”

“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.

“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”

“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.

Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.

And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.

When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.

Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.

“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”

The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.

Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.

Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.

More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.

Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.

“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”

Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.

The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.

“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”

“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”

The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.

“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.

“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?” 

“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”

“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”

“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.

“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”

He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.

The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.

“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.

“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”

“Your heartbeat.”

+ extra hyde.

· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic) · besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous. · dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍‍♂️ · anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3 · lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;

Bucky grunts something noncommittal and drops onto the opposite end of the couch. He’s fresh from a shower, hair damp and pushed back, wearing gray sweats and a black Henley that stretches across his shoulders. He smells like clean soap and something warm and distinctly him.

You hum in acknowledgment, keep scrolling.

It’s less than three minutes before you glance over and realize his head has tipped back against the cushions, mouth parted slightly, breathing slow and even.

You blink.

“Barnes?”

No response.

You lean closer. He’s out cold.

You stare at him for a second, then snort quietly to yourself. He had been tense when he walked in, shoulders tight like piano wire. Now he looks… soft. Younger. Peaceful in a way you don’t get to see often.

You slide the blanket off your legs and drape it over him instead.

The next night it happens again.

And the next.

It becomes a pattern so quickly it’s almost ridiculous. You’re in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he nurses a cup of tea? He’s asleep at the table before it cools. You’re on the training mats stretching after a workout? He sits down “just for a minute” and is snoring softly within five. You’re on the Quinjet, shoulder brushing his, and he’s gone before takeoff.

The first time Sam notices, he nearly chokes on his drink.

“Man,” he says slowly, eyes bouncing between you and the unconscious super soldier slumped in his chair, “I have never seen him do that.”

“What?” you ask innocently.

“Sleep. Like that.”

You glance at Bucky. He’s folded in on himself in one of the common room armchairs, chin tucked to his chest, looking so deeply asleep it borders on absurd.

“Maybe he’s tired,” you shrug.

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, squinting.

Natasha catches on next.

She tests it.

One evening, she corners Bucky in the kitchen while you’re still in the gym. She talks to him about mission reports, about old Hydra intel, about nothing at all. She even sits him down on the couch and lowers her voice to that smooth, soothing cadence she uses on frightened witnesses.

He doesn’t so much as yawn.

You walk in ten minutes later, towel around your neck, cheeks flushed from sparring.

“Hey,” you say, smiling when you see them.

Bucky looks up at the sound of your voice.

And promptly passes out mid-sentence.

Natasha stares at him.

Then at you.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Within a week it’s a full-blown investigation.

Clint tries keeping Bucky company in the rec room. Steve insists on staying up with him one night to “see what’s going on.” Sam even suggests it might be some weird delayed serum side effect.

Nothing.

Bucky stays stubbornly, frustratingly awake with everyone else.

But the second you’re alone with him?

Lights out.

The breaking point comes during movie night.

The whole team is sprawled across the couches. Bucky is sitting ramrod straight on one end, clearly determined to prove a point. He even says as much.

“I’m not tired,” he mutters, jaw tight.

You bite your lip to keep from smiling and sit beside him anyway. Not touching. Just close enough that your knees almost brush.

The movie starts.

Thirty seconds later, his head tips sideways.

And lands squarely on your shoulder.

The room erupts.

Sam howls. Clint actually applauds. Natasha hides her smirk behind her hand. Even Steve’s lips twitch.

Bucky jerks upright, horrified. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”

“You were snoring,” Sam informs him gleefully.

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were,” Clint says. “Like a tiny chainsaw.”

You’re laughing now, warmth blooming in your chest as Bucky’s ears turn pink.

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles, refusing to look at you.

It is funny.

But it’s also… something else.

Because you’ve started to notice the details. The way his breathing evens out almost immediately when you’re near. The way his shoulders drop. The way the constant, subtle vigilance that hums beneath his skin finally goes quiet.

It hits you one evening when it’s just the two of you in your room.

He hadn’t meant to come in. He was pacing the hall after a nightmare, trying not to wake anyone. You’d opened your door at the sound of his footsteps.

“You okay?” you’d asked softly.

He hesitated.

Then nodded, once.

“C’mere,” you’d said, stepping aside.

He perches on the edge of your bed like he’s afraid it might bite him. You sit cross-legged across from him, close but not touching.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says roughly.

“I know.”

You talk about nothing. About the new recruits. About a recipe Sam ruined. About the weather.

His eyelids start to droop.

You watch it happen in real time.

“Buck,” you murmur gently.

He blinks at you, trying to fight it.

“You’re safe,” you tell him, because you think maybe that’s the key. “You can sleep.”

It’s like someone flips a switch.

He sways once.

Then slumps forward, forehead pressing lightly against your shoulder as he goes completely limp.

You freeze for a second.

Then slowly, carefully, you ease him down against your pillows and pull the comforter over him.

He doesn’t stir.

The next morning, the team finds him there.

In your bed.

Still asleep.

Sam leans against the doorway, grinning. “Well. Mystery solved.”

Bucky groans and buries his face in your pillow. “Kill me.”

You just smile, brushing your fingers gently through his hair.

“Or,” you say sweetly, “you could just start sleeping in here.”

His eyes flick up to yours, wary but hopeful.

“You serious?”

“Seems like you only sleep when I’m around,” you shrug. “Might as well get a full night out of it.”

There’s a beat.

Then, slowly, shyly, he nods.

The team never lets him live it down.

But that night—and every night after—Bucky falls asleep within minutes of you climbing into bed beside him.

It’s not the sudden slam of your kitchen window when it drops closed, or the thud of Dex’s body on the tiled floor that wakes you up, nor is it the curse that escapes him when he heaves himself up to put the knocked over spices back into the order he knows you like. It’s also not the clatter of a loose throwing knife that hits the floor when he kicks off his boots, unwilling to leave footprints when he can smell the lemon floor cleaner you must have used when he was gone. 

You don’t even stir when Dex stumbles into your room, distracted and clumsy as he tries to draw even breaths. You’re still laying on your front, limbs tangled in the sheets like you’d been restless all night. He knows you hate sleeping without him, even on nights where you tell him ‘It’s fine’ and reassure him that you aren’t going anywhere. He hates it too, even though he’d never said it out loud, not wanting to unlock that safe inside his mind that would tell him to never leave your side.

None of his gentle touches, that graze of gloved hands along your bare thighs or his lips against your forehead pull you from whatever dream you must be having. If it were any other time he would retreat, peel off his suit and let the hot water of the shower calm him down, but tonight that won’t do it.

It’s the quiet ‘Can I?’ that finally brings you out of sleep. A small question he whispers against your neck even when you’ve told him before that he doesn’t need to ask, ever. But he always does anyways, you think he likes the reminder, that he always has this access to you.

With Julie he’d never felt anything romantic, and that made it easier to keep his distance for all that time, but he couldn’t imagine doing the same with you and his upper lip curls with irritation just thinking about it. 

Even now, settled above you on your bed in an apartment you’ve shared for months, it doesn’t feel close enough, and Dex wants to laugh in the face of all the past versions of him who had thought there was something fundamentally broken inside of him, despite being told otherwise. That false truth he’d accepted for so long that he’d only be able to obsess, and never love, almost any emotion from someone with psychopathic tendencies like him would have to be forced, it’d never come naturally.

What a fucking lie.

Everything was natural with you, mostly because he never expected it, he hadn’t been looking for you. Just revenge.

Dex didn’t even have to force meeting you as his neighbor, somewhere lost in that time shortly after his escape, back when he’d gripped the closest item to use as a weapon as he’d opened the door that first time to see you standing there. He remembers every detail, your flushed face from climbing the multiple flights of stairs, a hopeful smile on your lips as you asked if he had seen the neighbor's cat you were helping to track down. He’d offered to help you without a second thought, without even a first one really because he was supposed to be forming his plan to get revenge on the Fisks for ruining his life, supposed to be balancing the scales. But he’d do anything for you, even back then.

And you’d do anything for him too. 

Even now, at three am it takes you only a second to process his question, the need clouding his hoarse voice like an oncoming storm, and you vaguely register that a hand is tracing against the bare skin of your back even though you’d gone to sleep fully clothed. Had he taken it off or had you?

“Sweetheart?” A raw and strained voice probes again, thinking you hadn’t heard him, and your gasp is muffled against the pillow when a set of fingers you hadn’t taken notice of yet, press down between your thighs. You still have your underwear on, but they’ve been pushed to the side, exposing you to his leather covered hands. 

He still has his gloves on, and the scrape of damp fabric against your jaw when he places a delicate kiss there tells you he still has the mask on too, pulled up just enough to use his mouth. How long has he already been working you up, deciding if his mind was loud enough to warrant using the agreement you had in place?

How bad was his night for him to come straight to you without even getting out of his suit and showering first, betraying his own routine?

“Please,” You nod, finally answering a question that never needed to be asked.

It’s quiet, and barely audible over the dulled city noises just beyond your window, but you think you hear a quiet ‘Thank you’ muffled against your neck.

Dex’s gloved hand pulls away from your cunt, the tips of them reflective in the moonlight with evidence of your arousal, and he’s so glad the two of you put the bed near the window when you moved here together. This building was safer than the one you’d met in, less potential entry points and with the help of Mr Charles and his new line of freelance work, the perks of reinforced glass windows you could sleep in front of with no worry. 

No, with this clean slate you were safe. He didn’t have to worry about you, but that still didn’t stop him from doing so anytime you were apart.

You’re still only half awake when he unbuckles his tactical pants, the sound of the zipper giving you a few seconds notice before his knees are guiding your legs apart, his chest lowering to press against your back, effectively pinning you against the mattress, still fully in his suit. You can feel the outline of the leather gun holster on the middle of his chest, but there’s no solid mass, no weapon, nothing that could hurt you. 

And, god, it’s times like this you remember how big he is, how easily he completely covers your body with his own, and you can’t help but squirm when you feel the head of his cock rock up between your thighs. 

If Dex’s fingers hadn’t gotten you wet enough before, this certainly will, and he settles into a slow rhythm, coaxing your body to relax beneath him with every slide of his hard length, getting you used to him. Your body’s already memorized him, the familiar way he occasionally catches on your opening before pushing further to nudge against your clit, and then he draws his hips back to repeat the motion over, and over, and over.

The gentle grinding must make you fall back into sleep, only for a few seconds, because when you’re alert again it’s to him sinking halfway inside you. 

“Fuck-“ Your lungs seize up when he gets to the last couple inches. No matter how long it’s been, how much time he spends getting you ready for him, it’s always a struggle, and it’s not just the length of him, but the unexpected thickness towards the base too.

“Shh, shh,” Dex takes his time as he continues that slow stretch, “You’re okay, just breathe,” he urges shakily with a small kiss to your temple as he finally settles himself all the way in, his hips flush against the curve of your ass, fingers finding yours to intertwine together. “I’m here.”

One thing you learned early on with him is that during nights like these, when he needs to shut off his head, he never stops talking. Sometimes it’s all to you, whispered praises, declarations of love, telling you how good you are for him, and other nights it’s rambled snippets of things he’s trying to get out of his head, trying to purify himself before he can ever let any of his actions taint you. 

His girl. His North Star.

You always tell him nothing would make you change your mind on him, but he still feels compelled to tell you it all anyways.

“Didn’t want to wake you up,” A quiet grunt escapes him when he pulls back, barely enough so he can rut back into you immediately after, hating that sickening feeling whenever a part of his skin separates from yours. 

“It’s okay,” You reassure him, you want to say more, want to ask him how his night was, if the small smears of blood he’s leaving on your joined hands is his or someone else’s, if you need to be worried that he’s hurt. But the deep press of his cock against your cervix steals every word you want to say, and you can only gasp instead. 

“Shh, m’sorry,” He curses and squeezes your hands in an unnecessary apology because you’re trying to catch your breath so you can ask him for more.

Another thing that surprised you about Dex is how gentle he can be. 

You’ve seen him in action of course, it was unavoidable the day you found out everything when Fisk sent people after you, ‘revenge for his wife’ Dex had said later on. That same day when he had to beg you to run with him so you didn’t end up like Julie, with the wildest look you’ve ever seen in his eyes, face splattered with blood as he asked you to trust him. 

Of course you did, even though you watched as he took down five men in task force branded vests with just a few small movements of his hands. 

You never once doubted the promises he made to keep you away from harm, when you blindly followed him to a safe house he got ready the moment he met you ‘just in case’, you’d understood when Dex told you about his past, the why behind his need to settle the scale by killing Vanessa. 

You know the hands that are squeezing yours like an anchor as his cock reaches impossible places inside you again, are hands that have killed probably too many to count. But aside from those occasional times where you have to half-beg him to be rough with you, or the more common occurrences of hickeys and bite marks that you know he loves admiring whenever he can leave them, he’s the softest touch you’ve ever felt.

“I’ll be careful, you can go back to sleep,” Dex murmurs, less shaky now he’s inside you, he’d said once he always felt bad when he woke you up for this, that he knows you can never fully settle after. He’s managed it plenty of times before, sometimes never going further than satisfying his need to be inside you until he’s utterly calm, like the surface of a lake with currents rolling beneath, threatening to pull you down into them. 

“Don’t need sleep-“ You shake your head, and it’s only when you feel the wet patch on your pillow against your cheek do you realise you must have started drooling at some point. “Need you-“

You always need him. 

Through the layers of armoured fabric on his chest, you can feel the stutter of his breath, the still-there quiet disbelief at knowing you’re always waiting for him, always wanting him in a way that matches his own and fuck it’s never something he thought he’d get.

“That’s my girl,” Dex sighs, warm breath rolling over your face as he presses his face closer to yours. There’s an unmistakable metallic tinge to it that tells you there’s blood in his mouth and fear spikes in your chest.

What does the CIA have him doing-

“You’re bleeding, Dex-“ 

His laugh rumbles through against your back, abrupt and breathy while he smirks at your concern, like you’re worried a paper cut could make him bleed out.

“I’m okay, promise, just need you, Sweetheart.” You catch a flash of his face, dark eyes framed by the fabric of the balaclava, you were right about the lower half being pulled up. His mouth is bloody with a split lip, but it doesn’t hold him back from the lopsided smirk, one that would look threatening to anyone else, but with you it brings a sudden rush of warmth and slickness between your thighs.

He knows, fuck he must know the effect it has because he releases one of your hands from his leather grip so he can slide his arm between you and the mattress, expertly finding your clit in seconds. You should feel some sort of shame, filthy at the fact he’s still wearing those gloves that dance tightly wound circles over where you need him most, an inch higher from where he’s splitting you open on his length.

Everything from now is measured, examined by eyes trained to pick up every tiny detail, every miniscule reaction as your cunt begins involuntarily fluttering around his cock, every thrust growing harder now you’re dripping down him, ruining his tactical pants further along with your bedsheets. 

Dex tuts when you close your eyes to hide from the feeling, but he lets you have the escape, for now at least.

“Dex, I’m gonna-“

“I know, I know sweetheart, let go,” Dex rasps, sweet and condescending, like he’s not making you fall apart with a hand that you can’t be sure hasn’t been used to kill someone tonight. 

The thought should terrify you, he should terrify you, but how could he when he’s littering your face with kisses, holding you like you’re something precious, needing you like you’re important to him.

You’re tightening around him almost painfully, limp and choking on dry sobs beneath him and all you can do is squeeze the hand you’re still holding, your free one reaching behind to try and pull him closer by the back of his neck, aching for him to kiss you as you practically mewl his name, but he keeps a set distance so he can watch you.

“Dex! Dexdexdexdex-“ You can’t get out anything except his name and your eyes fly open to find his already on you, they probably never left. It’s his favorite part after all, the moment you come undone for him, and often he never settles for it happening just once, but he has to right now if he’s going to make that noise in his mind go quiet.

“Got you- I’ve got you.” Dex grunts, snapping his hips into yours and savouring the way you soak him, the strangled moans you make that continue to spur him on, pulling him away from one edge, but pushing him towards another. 

One he’s ready to leap from with a single question, “Inside?”

Dex never left things up to chance, you could argue calculated and precise are two of the three words you’d use to describe him, along with loving, but slowly the two of you had fallen into this habit of playing this game of chances.

Everything had started with small pills that you’d forgotten one too many times to be considered safe anymore, so you moved onto condoms. That method didn’t last nearly as long, coming to an abrupt end one night you both forgot the tiny foil square in the nightstand and remembered that bare slide of skin and skin, a mutual agreement was made that you trusted him enough to pull out each time, letting him paint your stomach or lower back with his spend.

That was until you got reckless, pleading him to stay at a point in your cycle you weren’t at risk of anything serious happening. That’s when you saw that look in his eyes after he withdrew just enough to see himself still leaking from your cunt. Those ribbons of white he fought the urge to gather up and push back inside that screamed evidence you were his. 

You started to say you weren’t trying… but you weren’t not trying. 

Dex knows your cycle as well as you right now, knows this isn’t like those weeks marked a shade of blue on your app that tells you both it’s not a risk, knows the weight of his question that he’d never ask if he wasn’t sure you weren’t safe from potential harm, in a high security apartment with the bulletproof windows even he couldn’t break through. 

But to you, the weight of it may as well be a feather.

“Inside.” You agree. 

In an instant, the remaining hand still locked with yours pulls away, instead sliding up along your throat, where you’re sure he must feel how much your heart is racing, and settles on your jaw. So big that he doesn’t even have to spread his fingers to be able to hold almost your whole face and pull you into a kiss for the first time, his blood and saliva swirling in your mouth as his tongue slides against your own.

“Fuuuck-“ Dex groans into you, long and quiet like you’re pulling it out of him and he shudders, his movements becoming sloppy and harsh until you feel it. A flood of warmth, so much of it that it escapes you almost immediately, despite the fact he’s pressed so deeply inside that you can feel he’s right against your cervix. 

Dex stays in you, long enough for you to know it’s more than usual, long enough to know you should add tests to next month's shopping list. But that’s a worry for another day. For now, you look out at the lights in the city, in a few hours people would be beginning to wake, and you wonder if you’ll catch any evidence of Dex’s bad night on the news.

“Better?” You ask only once his breathing’s slowed and he’s relaxed on top of you.

“Better.” Dex agrees quietly, finally withdrawing his hand from between your thighs to tug his mask off, sweat dampened hair falling into his face. Thankfully his mouth seems to be the worst of it, he’s got a bruise blooming on his cheekbone but his nose isn’t crooked, and there’s no black eye or potential concussion to monitor. “I’m gonna shower, okay?” 

“Think you’re getting away that easy?” You ask when he pulls out, cringing at that uncomfortable sudden wetness between your thighs, underwear still pushed to the side. You’d definitely have to change the sheet before going back to sleep.

“What, you want to come with me?” Dex teases, still not at the same confidence he usually would, still withdrawn from whatever got under his skin.

“Someone has to make sure you’re not gonna pass out,” You mumble airily, teasing him back as you twist over onto your back and stretch, forcing your body to wake up the rest of the way.

“I love you.” It’s effortless from his mouth, not rehearsed, said with the ghost of a smile as he mentally files the sight of you still spent on the bed while he begins to strip off items of clothing, abandoning them on the floor.

You looked at him again, he laid shirtless in bed, cuffed to the sides. Fresh gauze, alcohol, cotton, a medical stapler and tape sat on the crate beside you, just in case you needed them, which was very likely. They had patched the worst of the wounds before leaving, but the bandages on his side were already seeping again.

You didn’t want to be here. Matt had asked you because he trusted you, an old friend who’d survived Fisk’s wrath once before.—The bald bastard had tried to get you killed, after all— and because Karen had tried to put a bullet in Pointdexter’s head the moment they dragged him in.

To be honest, a part of you, a dark, whispering part, wanted Dex awake and mobile. Wanted him to walk out of here and finish the job Matt refused to fucking do.

But it’s not a matter of what you want.

With a sigh, you made your way to him with the gauze, cotton, alcohol and tape in hand, kneeling next to him on the bed. Your eyes flickered to him, making sure he was still out before daring to touch him. You peeled back the old dressing on his side as carefully as you could. His skin was fever-warm, muscles sculpted even in unconsciousness, marred by fresh bruises and the ugly gunshot wound. You used the cotton and alcohol to wipe him clean again, and then pressed clean gauze over the wound, securing it with tape, trying not to think about how still he was. You tried very hard not to think about how dangerous even this version of him felt, the man could kill people with anything, literally anything.

His hand snapped up without warning.

Fingers locked around your wrist, yanking your hand up against his chest. His eyes flew open, sharp, pale, instantly focused despite the pain. It was an intense stare that pinned you where you knelt beside the bed, it was scary. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to bruise, but there was no escaping his grip.

“You’re not Karen,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse and pain. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, it was honestly a little unsettling. “Good. She’d have finished the job by now.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You didn’t pull away immediately. “Let go.”

He didn’t, of course. His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, almost curious, feeling your pulse racing under his fingers. “You’re playing nurse for the man who killed your friends’ buddy.” His eyes flicked over your face, reading you. “Matt’s idea?”

“Yeah.” Your voice stayed steady even as heat crawled up your neck. “He had to take Karen somewhere else, you know, before she actually shot you.”

“Smart. She’s got fire. You’re different.” He tilted his head against the thin pillow, still looking up at you like you were the only thing in the room worth focusing on, not that there was much else. The cuffs clinked softly as he tested them without real effort. “And you’ve got that look. You've got your own deal. I’m sure you’ve got a motive of your own to keep me alive.”

You swallowed. The temptation was there again, thick and ugly. All it took was one set of keys to unlock the cuffs. He could slip out, disappear into the city, and do what Matt won’t: end Fisk.

Fisk who sent men to drag you into an alley and put two bullets in your torso because you asked the wrong questions.

You’re tempted to reach for the keys, but Matt’s words echoed right after: killing Fisk now would only make him a martyr. Create ten more Fisk’s in his place.

You hated how reasonable it sounded. You hated how much you still wanted the other, less morally correct option.

“I’m here to keep you alive until Matt gets back,” you said quietly. “That’s the plan.”

His smile widened by degrees until it was a quiet, knowing thing. He loosened his hold on your wrist, though his hand remained heavy against your skin. He sat up with a stifled groan, the movement stiff and careful, you watched his expression tighten, knowing exactly how much those staples must be pulling at his side.

“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. Part of you wants me walking out that door, part of you is wondering what I’d do to Fisk if I did.” He licked his dry lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before returning. “I’m good at finishing things. Ask Foggy.”

The name hit you like a slap. You twisted your wrist free from his grip, standing up fast. Your hand hovered near the gun at your hip. “Don’t.”

“You know I could take him out.”

“You won’t.”

Dex watched you, calm as ever, even while restrained, bleeding, unarmed and in a clear disadvantage. “Why not? You know what he is. What he almost did to you.” His voice softened, almost gentle. It was fucking eerie coming from someone who holds no regard for feelings. “I’m still balancing the scales. You could help tip them.”

“Who told you about that?”

“I know Fisk tried to get you killed in an alley like a dog that needed to be put down, and I know you’re not happy about that.” He kept talking, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to taunt you or if he’s acknowledging what you went through when no one else seemed to be able to.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” he debated, rightfully so. “I know he sent his men to kill you, your friends know this too, and yet, the man responsible for it is walking around still, free and as the mayor. And… What are your friends doing? Nothing”.

“Don’t.” You tried interrupting him, but he kept going. The gift that keeps on giving.

“They won’t deal with him themselves, and they won’t let me deal with him either—“

“Stop it,” You said, more firmly this time. Without realizing it, your body leaned forward, one knee bending onto the edge of the mattress as you hovered over him, drawn in by his words despite yourself.

“—Which means that your friends are doing nothing to avenge you, you almost got killed and they did nothing.”

“Shut up!” You finally gave in to his provocations and had a reaction, which is what he probably wanted. Your voice came out sharper than intended, breathier, the space between you now dangerously small.

The air felt too thick. You could hear your own breathing, could see the way his chest rose and fell right beneath you, the hard line of muscle leading down to his v line, covered by his sweatpants.

He noticed where your eyes went and tilted his head, shifting his hips deliberately.

That made you draw the gun at him.

“Enough.” The barrel leveled at his chest. “Not another word.”

Dex’s eyes flicked up to yours again. That slow, crooked smile returned, the bastard was having fun despite everything. “You’re not gonna shoot me,”

You kept the gun steady, still leaning over him, hovering close enough that the heat of his body rose up to meet you. You had no intention of pulling the trigger, this is not the way you did things, but the weight of the gun felt necessary.

You held his gaze. He looked up at you from the bed, that intense, unblinking stare locking onto yours, with slightly parted lips, eyes dark and focused only on you. The silence stretched, thick and dangerous.

One twist of the key… Let him go. Let him finish it. The thought slithered back in, hot and treacherous, twisting right alongside the sharp awareness of how close you were to him, with your knee planted on the mattress, body leaning over his, gun steady between you. His warmth radiated up through the thin space that remained. You could smell the faint copper of blood, sweat, and something darker underneath.

Your eyes betrayed you. They dropped.

He was hard. Painfully, obviously hard beneath the thin gray sweats, the thick outline straining against the fabric as he sat upright on the bed, using his strong arms to steady himself, legs slightly spread.

You scoffed, half-shocked. “Seriously?”

Dex followed your gaze. For two full seconds his face flickered, genuine mortification flashing across those sharp, blood-crusted features. His ears went pink.

“You’re very close, and I’m still a man,” he said, voice low and rough, almost apologetic for that split second before the smugness crept back in.

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A weird man, yes. Who gets hard when someone points a gun at him?”

He tilted his head, that unsettling little smile returning even as his breathing grew heavier. Oh.

“Guess so.” His tongue slowly wet his lower lip. “Yet I’m not getting slapped… So what does that say about you?”

“Shut up.”

Oh, that got him smirking.

The gun stayed pointed at his chest, your finger nowhere near the trigger. Your eyes kept flicking down despite yourself. You kept noticing how the thin gray sweats tented obscenely, how the thick, heavy line of his cock strained against the fabric, a small wet spot already darkening the material right at the head.

Dex didn’t look away from your face. His breathing had deepened, each inhale pulling at the fresh bandages you’d just taped down. The cuffs rattled faintly as he tested them again, not hard enough to break free, but enough that the metal bit into his wrists. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second, then back up, pupils blown wide and dark.

“You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said again, quieter this time. “And you’re not gonna walk away either. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”

Your free hand moved before you could stop it. You fisted your fingers in his short hair at the nape of his neck and yanked his head back sharply, exposing the long line of his throat. A low, involuntary sound escaped him— not quite a groan, but close— his Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils flaring even wider at the rough treatment. He didn’t fight it. If anything, his hips shifted forward a fraction, cock twitching visibly in the sweats.

“Tell me to stop,” you said, voice low and steady, searching his face.

The moral storm still raged in your chest: Matt’s trust, Karen’s grief, Fisk’s smug face while his men dragged you. But right now, with Dex’s pulse hammering under your grip and the way he was staring at you,, it all felt distant.

Dex’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip again. His stare never wavered. “Don’t stop.”

The words were simple. No hesitation.

You leaned in and crushed your mouth to his, he was already meeting you halfway.

The kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing because he surged up to meet you as much as the cuffs and his injuries allowed. His lips were a little dry from dehydration and blood, but he kissed like he was starving, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours with surprising heat. The kiss tasted like the metallic taste of blood mixed with salt and something unmistakably him. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he instinctively tried to raise his hands to touch you. The cuffs clinked hard against the sides of the bed frame, metal biting into skin, but he didn’t stop pulling, didn’t stop chasing your mouth.

You tugged his hair harder, tilting his head exactly how you wanted, and he let you, melted into it with another low, hungry noise. His cock jumped against the fabric, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that made the sweats stretch obscenely.

When you finally broke the kiss for air, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a second before breaking. His eyes were half-lidded, lips shiny and swollen, that unsettling little smile gone, replaced by raw want.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. His gaze flicked down to where your knee was still planted on the mattress between his spread thighs, then back up to your mouth. “Do that again.”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you holstered the gun—not trusting yourself with it anymore— and climbed fully onto the bed, straddling his lap. The moment your weight settled over his hips, his cock pressed hot and rigid against your core through the layers of clothing. He hissed through his teeth, head staying upright as his hips bucked up once, grinding into you with surprising force for someone cuffed and bleeding.

You shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy and thick against his lower belly, flushed dark, the head already slick with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped down the shaft. He was big, longer than you expected, with a slight upward curve and a thick vein running along the underside.

Your hand wrapped around him without preamble, but you didn’t stroke him properly. Not yet. You kept your grip loose and torturously slow, sliding your palm from root to tip in long, dragging pulls, thumb barely grazing the sensitive head each time. Every time his hips twitched up chasing more friction, you eased off just enough to deny him the pleasure.

Dex’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering but staying locked on your face. His pupils were huge, dark, and when you gave one particularly slow twist around the head, smearing pre-cum everywhere before pulling your hand almost all the way off, a low, wrecked sound escaped him. He loved it. The denial, the suffering. You could see it in the way his abs clenched, in the desperate little jerks of his hips that he couldn’t fully control.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear as you edged him again, stroking just fast enough to make his cock throb in your fist before slowing to a crawl. “This is what you get for taunting me,” you whispered, voice rough. “For knowing exactly what I want and dangling it in front of me.”

He didn’t beg. He just stared at your lips, hungry and unblinking, chest heaving. When you squeezed tighter on the upstroke and then stopped completely, letting his cock twitch uselessly in the air, his wrists yanked hard at the cuffs on either side of him. The metal rattled violently against the bed frame, but he couldn’t reach you. He couldn’t touch your thighs, couldn’t grab your hips. All he could do was take it, sitting upright, muscles straining, cock leaking steadily over your fingers.

“Fuck… yeah,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost reverent. His gaze never left your mouth. “Keep going. Just like that.”

You stroked him again, faster this time, fist gliding slick and tight until his thighs started to tremble and his breathing turned ragged, and then you stopped, pulling your hand away entirely. His cock bobbed angrily against his stomach, flushed and dripping, and Dex let out a shaky exhale, head tilting back slightly before snapping forward again to watch you.

The moral battle roared back louder than ever while you tortured him like this. Matt had asked you to keep Dex alive— locked up, controlled— so he wouldn’t kill Fisk and turn the bastard into a martyr. Karen wanted him dead for Foggy, her hands already stained enough by Wesley. And you… you wanted Fisk gone more than almost anything. The alley, the bullets tearing through you, the fear… it still woke you up some nights. Dex would do it. You knew it in your bones. If you uncuffed him right now and whispered the words, he’d walk out of here and end Wilson Fisk without a second thought.

He’d love it. He’d do it for the sport, for the balance, and maybe— just maybe—a little for you.

But Matt’s voice echoed in your head: I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever. And you knew he was right. Killing Fisk now would only create ten more monsters in his place.

Still, with Dex sitting there cuffed to the sides of the bed, cock throbbing in your hand, eyes dark with want and that eerie calm acceptance… The temptation to just let him go afterward was thicker than ever.

You gave him one more slow, punishing stroke—tight, twisting, dragging your thumb hard over the leaking slit— then stopped again, watching his face twist with frustrated pleasure.

“Enough,” you finally growled, voice breaking with your own need. You stripped your pants and underwear off in one rough motion, kicking them aside. Then you climbed back over him properly, lining his cock up with your entrance. You were soaked, already embarrassingly wet from the power, the wrongness, the sheer intensity of edging him while he sat there helpless and loving every second of it.

You sank down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.

The stretch burned in the best way, his thick cock splitting you open as you took every inch. Dex’s head stayed upright, eyes rolling back for a second as a guttural groan ripped from his chest. “So fucking tight— Jesus Christ.”

You bottomed out with a moan, hips flush against his. For a moment you just sat there, letting yourself adjust, feeling him throb deep inside you while he remained sitting, cuffed hands useless at his sides. Then, when it stopped being too much, you started moving, slow, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.

His hands were useless, cuffed tight to the sides of the bed, so all he could do was take it. Take every roll of your hips, every clench of your pussy around him. His abs flexed with every thrust, the bandages on his side darkening further, but he didn’t care. He just stared up at you with raw hunger, lips parted, occasionally bucking up to meet you when he could, the cuffs rattling with each desperate pull.

You braced one hand on his sweat-slick chest, the other fisting his short hair again as you started riding him in earnest. Slow at first, then faster with deep, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged every thick inch of his cock along your walls, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy swallowing him obscenely loud in the quiet room.

That should’ve sobered you up, it didn’t.

Dex stayed sitting upright, cuffed hands useless at his sides, but he didn’t stay passive. Every time you leaned closer, chasing the friction on your clit against his pelvis, he craned his neck forward with a low, hungry sound. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, sucking messy marks into the skin just below your jaw while his tongue dragged greedily along your pulse point. When you slammed down taking him to the hilt, he groaned against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.

“Fuck- so wet,” he rasped between kisses, voice wrecked and rough, lips brushing your collarbone as you rode him faster. “Can feel you dripping down… squeezing me so fucking tight every time you sink down.”

His hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes as much as the pain and cuffs allowed, the motion limited but forceful, driving his cock deeper with every thrust. The cuffs rattled violently against the sides of the bed with each desperate yank, metal biting into his wrists, veins standing out along his forearms as he strained uselessly to touch you. He wanted to grab your hips, to pull you down harder, to feel your skin under his palms so badly that his fingers curled into tight fists, tugging harder every time your pussy clenched around him.

You ground down in tight circles, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you with every roll, your clit rubbing slick and insistent against the base of his shaft. Dex’s head tilted, lips latching onto the side of your neck again, sucking hard as a broken grunt vibrated against your skin. His breath came in hot, ragged pants between each messy kiss, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat.

“Harder,” he muttered against your throat, the word half-command, half-plea, but he didn’t beg, just kept staring up at you with those blown pupils whenever you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. Another violent tug at the cuffs made the bed frame creak as you bounced on his cock, the wet slap of your ass meeting his thighs growing louder, filthier.

Your walls fluttered around his thick length, the stretch burning so good as you took him deeper, feeling every vein and ridge as you rode him without mercy. Dex’s abs clenched visibly under your palm, and he groaned louder when you traced them with your fingers, mouth chasing your neck again, licking a broad stripe up the column of your throat before biting down lightly, hips stuttering up to fuck into you from below.

The pleasure coiled tighter, your pussy gripping him like a vice with every downstroke, slick sounds echoing as you slammed yourself onto his cock over and over. Dex’s breathing turned into shallow, desperate grunts against your skin, his cock twitching and pulsing hot inside you, the head nudging your cervix with every brutal grind.

When you came, it hit like a freight train. A good one. Your pussy clamping down rhythmically around his throbbing cock, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you ground down hard, riding out every pulsing wave while your nails dug into his chest.

Dex followed right after with a low, “Fuck—”, his hips jerking up as much as he could, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled thick, hot ropes of cum, flooding your pussy while he stayed sitting upright, lips pressed open-mouthed against your neck through the whole thing.

The room fell quiet except for your shared, ragged breathing.

You stayed there for a long moment, still impaled on his softening cock, both of you slick with sweat and cum and a little blood from his reopened wounds. Your fingers loosened in his hair, stroking through the short strands almost gently now.

Dex’s eyes were half-closed, but he was still watching you, only that now that intense, pale stare had softened just a fraction by the afterglow. His voice, when it came, was rough and quiet.

“…You still gonna keep me locked up?”

You didn’t answer right away. The moral storm was already creeping back in, quieter now, but still there. Matt’s request. Karen’s rage. Fisk still breathing.

But the way Dex had looked at you when he said “don’t stop,” the way he’d yanked at those cuffs like he’d die if he couldn’t touch you… you knew one thing for certain.

He would do it if you asked, he’d walk out of here and put a bullet in Fisk’s head without blinking.

“please,” he begs over the phone, “i’ll be good i swear. i’ll stop fighting just let me come home.”

from his tone you could tell he was just done crying and it just sounded pathetically beautiful.

“this is not your home. this is my house.” you coo as you stir your dinner. “stop calling me dex.”

you hang up without listening to the rest of his pleading. though less than 10 minutes later, he’s at your front door, begging again.

“baby,” eyes red and puffy, “i need you, i can’t breathe without you. please, please, don’t cut me off again, just—” he breathes as he ghosts his arm by your shoulders like he’s asking for permission. “can i please stay?”

you sigh and let him inside the house. he silently walks in, muttering a quiet thank you as he passes you. as soon as you close door and turn, dex is already on his knees.

“what the hell are you doing dex?”

dropping to his knees, his hands caress the backs of your thighs, dropping his head and burying it between them. gripping you tightly like he could bare letting go. “please take me back. nothing is good without you and it’s making me fucking sick, please,” practically blubbering at this point.

he was so strong and his biceps wrapped around you effortlessly. you could feel the strength just radiating off of him always, like an ever glowing essence.

you sigh, hand touching the nape of his neck and travelling up through his hair while he hums in contentment, “please stand up.”

the sound that he makes was teetering the line of desperation and relief. his lips press against the plush of your thigh while his hands rise to cup your ass. with your hand still buried in his hair, you pull him up with a slight tug, trying to get him to stand. though he keeps slowly rising, kissing up your side and dancing over your stomach, the fabric rising with every movement. a soft gasp escapes your lips and his touch slides up your spine, a shiver running through you. he stops just by your neck when you tug his hair harder and he hisses your name though one would argue it was a moan. you shove him gently and tell him to sit down, though you knew he could’ve stopped you.

you tend to his wounds and wipe his face and he watches you the whole time with puppy eyes. you share your dinner with him but you don’t touch again then, he only steals glances between bites.

within the span of an hour he’s inching closer to you on the couch and he’s watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. no one really cares about the news playing on the television as it repeats something about the AVTF.

his heavy hand rests just under your chest as he pulls you in and buries his nose in your hair, taking a long deep breath in. memorizing your scent like it gave him life.

by the end of night dex is situated between your legs, groaning like it hurts to part from you. he whispers soft thank you’s like he’s grateful for this meal you’ve provided. pushing your legs up higher over his head while you pant and squirm. but dex takes more control then, ignoring your pleas to slow down and dragging you closer to his mouth. maw slack and relentless as he laps and teases. his strong arms wrap and hook around your thighs. tongue teasing the sensitive bud for what felt like eternity. you’ll push his head away to no avail, weakly spent as you attempt it.

“dex, enough. i can’t,” you pant, voice bordering on barely concealed exhaustion and blissful satisfaction.

he shakes his head against you and that only makes you gasp again, throwing your head back.

“not until you promise hmm?” he says between his drunken moans, “you can’t leave me.”

crying out from overstimulating pleasure you nod, “okay, fuck— i won’t. you can stay.”

looking up at you through his hooded eyes, he smiles with them before kissing your inner thigh. he leaves gentle kisses to let you cool off, letting the feeling subside for barely a minute before diving right back into his ministrations. he lets you squeeze yours legs around his head and writhe as you say his name.

“now really try to suffocate me with these,” he says as he squeezes your thighs harder around his neck, turning his head to bite the plush of your thighs.

you know you’ll let him in again. you’ll always let him come back. maybe one day you’ll tell him how you follow him too.

Yeah, sure. Not attracted to other guys at all!

Dex looked far too pleased about it.

You loved that about Dex. He never looked surprised when he got what he wanted. He looked like he had already calculated the exact second Bucky would snap and finally kissed him back already!

“You’re so fucking smug,” Bucky muttered.

Dex’s eyes slid to you. “She likes watching us.”

Bucky looked at you, too.

You were flushed, breathless, trying very hard not to smile.

“I do,” you admitted.

Bucky’s jaw clicked. Then he kissed Dex like he was a bit annoyed at him for being right.

It was rough, open-mouthed, and mean in that competitive, stupid, beautiful way men got when neither one of them wanted to admit they were enjoying themselves. Bucky made this low sound into Dex’s  mouth, and Dex’s hand tightened in his shirt.

See, you liked being watched. That was your thing. But apparently, you liked watching too. Which was why you invited them over to your place on a rare off-day. You had been casually sleeping with them separately for a while now, and you knew that both of them were aware of the other guy, so you thought eh, why not? Might be fun. Might be interesting. They might try killing each other, but maybe you’d be into that, too, in your own fucked up way.

Interesting turned out to be the right choice of word, because seeing Bucky’s mouth on Dex, seeing Dex lean into it like he had been starving, made heat curl low in your stomach so fast you actually whimpered.

Both of them heard it.

Dex broke the kiss first, breathing hard, eyes dark as he turned back to you.“You want him to make you feel good, baby?”

Bucky’s stomach flipped. You tilted your head.

Huh. That's new. 

Dex’s voice was low, like he was giving you a gift. Like he was reminding Bucky to understand that you were still the centre of this. Still the one they were both trying to please. Competitive bastard. 

But this was out of character, because Dex was usually the more submissive when he was with you. 

Apparently, Bucky being there flipped some jealous, vicious little switch in him. Suddenly he needed to prove he could fuck you just as stupid as a super soldier could. And he could.

Bucky, meanwhile, went the opposite way. Usually, he was much more dominant. Usually he was the one pinning you down and taking control.

But with Dex there, he got pleasantly quieter. More obedient, more desperate to be useful. Like he wanted to prove he could be good for you, too, mouth on you, hands where you told him, watching Dex fuck you while waiting for your next order.

So really, you were spoiled for choice.

Dex was trying to beat Bucky in his own game. Bucky was trying to prove that he could follow orders, too!

Unfortunately, you were greedy and wanted both. 

You looked at Bucky, and how he reacted to Dex’s words. 

Bucky looked at you like he was trying very hard not to crawl.

“Yes,” you said.

Dex’s smile widened. “Then tell him.”

“Please, Bucky,” you pouted, “Please make me feel good.”

Bucky was on his knees between your thighs before you could even tease him for how fast he moved.

And that was when it got from great to whatever the fuck the seventh circle of heaven was.

Bucky was hungry. He kissed the inside of your thigh like he hated the fact that Dex was watching and loved it at the same time. His hands gripped your hips, metal and flesh, holding you open while his eyes flicked up to your face.

Dex moved behind you, one hand at your throat, not squeezing, just keeping you upright. Keeping your head tilted. Keeping you watching.

“Look at him,” Dex murmured against your ear. “Since you want him so bad.”

You did.

You watched Bucky drag his mouth deeper and his eyes darken when your breath caught.

You watched him notice exactly what made your muscles tight and then do it again, harder, because Bucky Barnes had never lost a competition in his life without making it everyone’s problem.

Dex noticed too. That’s when his grip at your jaw tightened.

Bucky smiled against your skin. “She likes when I—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dex snapped, voice rough. “I noticed.”

You nearly came from that alone.

You loved the jealousy and the attention. The fact that they were both so focused on you it felt impossible to breathe. Dex behind you, controlled and possessive. Bucky between your legs, looking up like he was daring Dex to do better.

Dex praised you when your pleasure rippled through.

Bucky groaned when you pulled his hair.

Dex told you, “That’s it. Let her hear you.”

You hummed like the sound was a reward.

Fuck, who were these people and what have they done to your boys? They were so different with their roles reversed.

Different, but good different. It was nice to see them both out of their comfort zones for you, pushing your buttons in opposite ways. 

Still, what mattered most was that they worked especially well together.

Bucky knew how to make you feel adored and devoured at the same time. Dex knew how to hold you still without making it feel like a cage. Bucky knew being watched made you desperate. Dex knew praise made you pliant. Bucky knew exactly when to be patient. Dex knew exactly when not to be.

So when Dex finally pulled you flush against him, his body pressed behind yours, Bucky stayed in front of you with wet lips, bright blue eyes, and both vibranium and flesh hands on your thighs.

Dex’s hand slid down your stomach, teasing and mean.

Bucky watched.

Then instead of reaching for your core like you had expected him to, Dex leaned forward, grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s hair, and pulled him up from between your legs until he was sitting beside you instead.

Oh.

Bucky gave a lewd moan, eyes blown wide.

You turned your head, breathless, lips brushing Dex’s cheek.

“You liked that,” you teased Bucky.

Dex’s smile went wicked.

“Touch him again,” you whispered, not as demanding as you usually was with him. “Please, Dex”

Bucky murmured your name like a warning, but he did not pull away when Dex’s fingers trailed up his metal arm, before he caught Bucky by the chin and forced the former Winter Soldier to look at him.

Bucky made a whine that sounded obscene.

You smiled. Oh. This was different from usual, dominant Bucky. This was way different. Not that you were complaining.

“You two are so cute,” you said, and had the audacity to giggle. 

Bucky gave a rough, breathless laugh.

Dex bit your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to shut you up.

It didn’t work. Because now you knew. Now you had both of them.

And because they were both insane, because both of them wanted to be your favourite, because neither of them could stand the idea of the other pleasing you better, they became unbearable.

Dex pushed into you from behind, slow at first, his mouth pressed to your neck, groaning every time you clenched around him.

And Bucky took a leap of faith and kissed him again while he did it.

It was messy, hungry, and competitive, sharing your sweet taste with him. 

He did it like he hated how much he wanted it. Like he hated even more that Dex was good at this.

Then Bucky turned and kissed you too with Dex’s spit still trailing from his mouth, stealing every sound Dex dragged out of you like he wanted to claim those, too.

It was filthy.

It was perfect.

Dex behind you, inside you, trying and failing to keep control. Bucky beside you, metal hand slipping between your legs while his other hand worked himself, his mouth moving between yours and Dex’s like he couldn’t decide who he wanted to ruin more.

And you were spoiled rotten.

You were held open. Watched. Kissed. Praised. Teased. Split apart between two men who had spent the entire night pretending they hated each other when really they hated how badly they wanted the same thing.

You.

And maybe, a little bit, each other.

You came first, because of course you did. They were both too competitive not to make that happen. Dex fucked you through it with his face buried in your throat, voice breaking around your name, and Bucky’s hand wasn’t much better. He didn’t even slow down as he watched you fall apart like it was the prettiest little thing he had ever seen in his century-old tenure on life.

Dex followed after, buried deep, shaking behind you.

Then Bucky came around his own fist. Still breathing hard, he grabbed Dex to kiss him again.

Though he wasn’t angry this time. He was still rough and possessive. But not angry.

Dex melted into it, pleased with himself.

Afterward, none of you moved much

Dex stayed behind you, arm locked around your waist like he had no intention of letting either of you escape. Bucky had his head in your lap, fingers tracing lazy circles over your tummy, eyes half-lidded and far too pleased with himself.

Then Dex murmured, “I think I’m her favourite.”

Bucky’s head lifted immediately.“You’re delusional.”

You laughed.

Obviously, they were going to deny it.

Bucky would call it adrenaline. Dex would call it curiosity. Both of them would insist it had mostly been about you.

And sure, maybe it had been. For now.

But you had felt Dex shiver when Bucky touched him. You had seen Bucky lose his composure when Dex kissed him.

They liked each other. Probably almost as much as they liked you.

They liked fighting. They liked watching. They liked being watched. They liked competing to please you so badly that the competition had turned into wanting each other too.

They just hadn’t figured it out yet.

Which was fine. You had plenty of time.

And next time, you had every intention of making them do much more than make out while you watched.

—

Note: I’m always so pleased that so many of us have the same taste in emotionally volatile men. This will be my last blurb of the night! Keep em coming and I will try my best to write them 🫶

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

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